


No Business Like It

by Seraphira



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Kinkmeme, M/M, Reposted Work, dan is sad, not mine, smut in later chapters, walter is a prostitute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 03:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7742176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seraphira/pseuds/Seraphira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walter J. Kovacs was in the family business. He was good at his job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As you may have noticed in the tags, this work is not mine. I do not own Watchmen or this piece of fiction, only this account. This was originally written by writerbunny on the kinkmeme, spread over three pages. I noticed it, and decided to move it to an easier medium for the convenience of its readers, old and new. 
> 
> If you'd like to read it in its original format, here are the links:  
> Parts 1-5 : http://spam-monster.livejournal.com/2617.html?thread=4487737#t4487737  
> Parts 6-10 : http://spam-monster.livejournal.com/2938.html?thread=6658170#t6658170  
> Parts 11-15 : http://spam-monster.livejournal.com/2938.html?thread=7889018#t7889018

Walter J. Kovacs was in the family business. He was good at his job.

It wouldn't have been his first choice for a living, if he'd had options, but like most children drafted into the craft of their parents, he didn't. He'd come home the day before his tenth birthday, after his mother had sent him to the corner store for the essentials (bread, milk, eggs, condoms) and returned to find his mother prone on the floor, her heavy flesh twitching as the nattily-dressed man threw away the empty bottle of Drano. The man looked over at Walter, frozen with fear and still clutching the shopping bag (bread, milk, eggs, condoms), and said he'd do.

(The man had leather gloves, slim and well-made, dyed a deep purple. Like Jack the Giant Killer and his seven-league boots, they made him powerful.)

The day before Walter's tenth birthday, he went into the family business.

The day after his sixteenth birthday (throwing away the empty bottle of Drano, peeling dark purple leather gloves from the twitching flesh at his feet), he went into business for himself.

**

It wasn't easy, but then, no entrepreneurial effort ever is. Most of the pimps in the Village were glad to be clear of him, after what happened to Natty Jack. A few attempted to persuade him to enter into a merger, but Walter was able to convince them that it wasn't worth their investment (blood and bone and bared teeth). He soon built up a reputation; red and raw, lean and mean, he would never be waifish and pretty like the smack fairies (thin limbs twitching with each hit like a dose of Drano), so he cultivated other attractions instead.

Walter kept himself immaculately clean, sneaking into the YMCA at least three times a week for a lukewarm shower. He kept himself limber, watching the gymnastics classes and hesitantly mimicking the motions in a secluded corner of the Y's gym. (Sometimes he made transactions in locked steam rooms, bruising his knees on damp tile as sweat flattened his shining hair.) He abstained from alcohol, cigarettes, street drugs, knowing that tainted flesh was cheaper by the pound (but oh, how he watched the twitching junkies and longed for a single hit, a slice of oblivion, a way out). Most importantly, he learned how to take a blow, and how to give one, (how to turn a crop just so to make his bound business partner gasp and buck against the hotel bedspread).

With these newly-honed skills, Walter's list of contacts suddenly tripled, nervous sweating men eager to press hundred dollar bills into Walter's strong hands, wrapping his leather-clad fingers around the handle of the whip or the paddle.

By twenty-one, Walter J. Kovacs had a modest apartment, three square meals a day and only walked the streets if times were lean, doing most of his business by appointment only. He was efficient and discreet, a consummate professional, and every time the latest John closed his fingers (dark purple leather) around their instrument of choice, their sunken eyes alight with greed and lust, he died a little inside.

It was a living.


	2. Chapter 2

To Dan Dreiberg, the New York Public Library was the ultimate mark of wealthy bachelorhood.  
  
Since conversation could only be carried out in whispers and hushes, it was not a place for glittering socialites to latch their polished claws onto unsuspecting arms, batting false lashes and heaving falser bosoms. Since membership was free and easily obtained by all, it was not a place for 'new money' to flaunt their newly-acquired status, wearing extravagant suits and generously tipping the snooty waitstaff, all the while projecting a careful facade of disinterest. No, the New York Public Library on a weekday afternoon was a haven for that curious and rare type; the type who had enough money to not be worried about marriage, enough money to not need a day job and, most importantly, enough money not to give a damn what anyone else thought.  
  
Naturally, Dan went to the library quite often.  
  
Even in the middle of the day in the middle of the week, Dan wasn't alone. Once he stepped out of his Midtown brownstone, it was nigh impossible to be alone in New York City, but here he could hunch himself amid ponderous tomes, tuck himself away between the stacks and try to forget that the rest of the city existed (its filth and its wounds and its cries to be saved from itself). Dan was proud of himself, of the work he did every night, and he wouldn't trade it for anything (he put the pair of books he'd already collected on the ground, crouching to shuffle through a stand of old journals). And he liked the other masks just fine, good people all, except maybe the Comedian (he pulled out a volume with an essay on projected climate change and its effect on avian life in the Adirondacks, perfect). And he'd never been what one would call a social animal, so not even the lack of love life or dating scene bothered him too terribly much (passing by the children's section on his way to the checkout, he noticed a bound anthology of Minutemen comics; smiling, he added it to his stack). But some days, (some nights) the weight of the uniform, the symbol, the responsibility weighed on him in ways he couldn't even quantify, much less describe. It was a puzzle, and one that no amount of gadgetry or back-alley violence could solve.  
  
Juggling his selections, Dan joined the queue of last-minute library patrons, hastily checking out before the library closed for the night. Shifting the books for a better grasp, Dan saw over the shoulder of the man in front of him; a large hardcover stared back at him, "Introduction to Abnormal Psychology" etched across the front. A Rorschach test dominated the space, black blots spilling haphazardly over white, always symmetrical but with no pretense at order. Dan snorted softly. "It looks like the way my life feels right now," he muttered.  
  
The man must have heard him, since he looked over his shoulder up at him (red and blue and _damn_ , when was the last time he'd seen that many freckles on a grown man?). "Wrong," the man said, his voice like his face, rough and worn and ill-used.  
  
Dan blinked; he hadn't been expecting an answer, or at least not one he could repeat in polite company. "What do you mean, wrong?" he echoed. "It's a Rorschach blot, there's no right or wrong answer."  
  
"Hurm. There's always a right answer," the man protested stubbornly. "Not everybody chooses it. Besides," the hard line of his mouth drew up into a smirk, "it's obviously a pretty butterfly."  
  
Dan was unsure if he wanted to take a step back or laugh aloud, but the half-cruel mockery in the man's eyes and smile, pointed at himself more than at Dan, prompted a bark of honest laughter out of Dan (it was funny, after all, even if he wasn't sure why). One of the newer librarians irritably _shhhhhh_!ed him and Dan quieted with an apologetic dip of his head, checking out his books without further comment. By the time he collected his bag, the redheaded man was already gone.

Dan stepped out into the breezeless August air, heat prickling over his skin after the cool dark of the interior. The city around him seemed to stir, preparing to disgorge itself in a tide of rush-hour traffic. Dan decided to find himself a cafe to hole up in until the work rush was over, and then make his way back home before the dinner rush began. He had a busy night ahead of him.

Dan Dreiberg stood outside the New York Public Library, watched the people ebb and flow past him (one redheaded man two blocks down, fighting his way to the subway) and felt very, very alone.


	3. Chapter 3

"Look, socialism and fascism are two completely separate ideologies. You can't just use them interchangeably and you know it, we've been through this before!"

"Hurm. Makes little difference if I do. Both of them run contrary to capitalism, individualism, free enterprise. What made America what it is now."

"Bullshit. You're just stalling because you know the game's over and I'll win."

" _Thinking,_ Daniel." Ginger eyebrows creased in concentration as they stared at the game board; long fingers raked through the black and white stones in the ceramic bowl to the side. Dan smiled at Walter, secure in his victory as he tucked his scarf closer and picked up his cardboard cup of coffee. The slight breeze rattled the branches of the leafless trees on this sunny second day of November, heralding snow despite the bright blue sky. They had come a long way since August.

**

Dan had signed up for the beginner's Go lessons on a whim. It was held in tiny Dresden Park, tucked away like an oasis, and what the hell, he figured he could use the sunshine and what passed for fresh air. However, he hadn't expected all of the students but one to be under fifteen. Perhaps to soothe his ego, Dan was partnered with the only other adult student; the redheaded man from the library (not all that surprising, Dan decided, since the lessons were advertised on the library's massive bulletin board).

They sat across from each other in awkward (on Dan's part), sullen (on the other man's part) silence, listening to the cheerful sextuagenarian explain the basic rules and techniques of the ancient game. For long minutes afterward, there was no sound but the click of tiles and the murmur of child's voices (apart from the traffic sounds, but that was more like wallpaper than actual sound, omnipresent but unnoticed) as they played, clumsily-placed stones occasionally corrected by the teacher as she floated from table to table.

Dan could bear it no longer. He was used to long periods of near-silence on his lonesome night patrols, but the redhead's icy stare was too much to take. "You like the Yankees or the Mets?" he asked lightly; he was a Mets fan himself (always rooting for the underdog) and had never encountered a New Yorker who didn't have at least some opinion on baseball, even if it was by mutual loathing of the Boston Red Sox.

The other man made a subvocal noise low in his throat. "Hurm. Doesn't make a difference."

"What do you mean?"

The man snapped a white stone to the Go board with a decisive click. "You're not really interested. My opinions on baseball teams are just a convenient way to fill the silence. Just conversational window-dressing, doing what's expected of us in society." Ice blue eyes locked with Dan's, hard and suspicious. "I do what people expect of me every day. I don't need it when I'm not on the clock."

Dan blinked in astonishment at the man before sitting up straighter in his chair, feathers ruffled at the man's accusatory tone (especially since he was right). "Fine, then," Dan snapped back, placing a black tile on the board with more force than necessary. "No window dressing. No small talk. Tell me what you think about current foreign policy with the Soviet Union."

Now it was the other man's turn to blink in surprise; he obviously hadn't expected Dan to agree with him, to call his conversational bluff. "What policy?" he finally said. "Same policy as with everyone else: shake the walking blue bomb at them and make them play nice." _Click_ went the stone on the board.  
  
"Is that a bad thing?" _Click_.  
  
"It is if its the first response instead of a last resort. We should rely on ourselves and our own strength, not some magic man to rescue us from all the monsters under the bed." _Click_.  
  
"What about the Soviets in particular? If they're stockpiling as many nukes as the scientists say, shouldn't we put forth a unified front at the onset?" _Click_.

And they were off. They talked all through the lesson (foreign policy and American military strength), through a hasty lunch at the park's hot dog stand (the decay of community and civic responsibility in urban communities), through the walk to the subway station (the role of the vigilante in regards to the law and the rise in criminal activity across the nation), shaking hands solemnly at the mouth of the stairs and promising to continue their debate (whether the felony and misdemeanor ratings needed to be redefined) at the next lesson.

His name was Walter Kovacs, he was "in the service industry."

His name was Daniel Dreiberg, he was "an ornithologist."

They both liked the Mets.


	4. Chapter 4

In October, Dan had discovered Walter's true profession.  
  
They had continued meeting for Go lessons, which became Go sessions after they completed the course, which became lunch and midday cocktails (though Walter didn't drink), which became excursions to exhibits at museums and galleries. It was the simplest, least complicated friendship Dan had ever had. They met, sometimes to eat, sometimes to play, but mostly to argue.   
  
Walter was always unflinchingly, brutally honest, as if he was trying to vent all the honesty he bottled up the rest of the day, and gruffly berated Dan if he tried to be diplomatic and compromise. Soon, Dan learned that he too could say whatever was on his mind, what he truly thought about things. And at the end of their time together, no matter how loudly they disagreed, they would always part with a handshake and plans for the next meeting.  
  
They talked about everything but themselves, a necessity on Dan's part (the whole point of a secret identity, after all) but a curiosity on Walter's. All he would ever say was that he was "in the service industry," which could mean any number of things in New York City. Dan didn't see Walter as a waiter or a sales clerk, though. Maybe a bartender (forced to make insincere noises of sympathy as he poured beer for drunken cheating husbands), or a personal trainer (complimenting bleached socialites as they sweated and starved their way to Holocaust chic). Whatever it was, it was a night job, leaving his days free for Dan to cheerfully hire his time, a few hours for the price of a Go match or two, lunch at the Gunga Diner, tickets to the new exhibit at the Museum of Natural History. If Walter had been female, Dan would have called it dating. But he wasn't (and really, they argued too much for any flirting to occur), so Dan called it friendship.  
  
It was at a trip to the Museum of Modern Art that Dan truly figured it out. Dan had given up on any aspirations of artistic ability in college, when his professor had thrown up her hands in despair because "his trees looked like trees." (Walter had smiled at the tale, cold and sharp.) Art and beauty were apparently beyond him, so he stuck with functionality, inventing thing that were not exactly artful, but did the job well. He was anxious to hear his friend's opinions on the pieces, though; Walter apparently did not value his education very highly, never speaking of classmates or teachers, but he was a font of eclectic knowledge and original ideas, his opinions unshaped by a tutor.  
  
Dan wasn't disappointed; Walter glowered at the various abstracts, cubists and post-impressionists, either condemning (often) or praising (rarely) the artist's technique and method, the angle of the brushstrokes, the quality of the paints, the overall effect of mixed medium works (which he loathed, saying the lack of one cohesive medium weakened the work as a whole; Dan called him a racist and startled a laugh out of him).

Walter was in the middle of quietly critiquing the angles in a jumbled mess of black, yellow and red when another patron slid up next to them, a tall, smiling fellow with a porkpie hat (at what he probably thought was a jaunty angle). "Ah, 'Experiment in Oils #3,'" the man interrupted, smiling at them. "Powerful, isn't it? A fierce and visceral representation of the futility of post-modern inspiration." He raised his eyebrows at Walter as if expecting him to agree.  
  
Walter just grunted low in his throat. "Where does it say that?"  
  
The man's smile grew wider and even more smarmy; Dan turned his face into his brochure, wondering if he'd met the man before. "It doesn't have to say it explicitly," the man said, as if explaining a simple concept to an exceptionally slow child. "It can be read in the layers and nuances of symbolism, the context in the history of the artist and the time it was painted. If you know where to look, of course."  
  
"Hurm." Walter's drawn face grew even sharper in disdain. "That what you think? That your interpretation trumps the intention of the artist? People look at these paintings and think they can unravel some 'deeper meaning,' but there is no deeper meaning. Just what we impose upon it after staring at it for too long. Unless you can explicitly know what the artist intended in a piece, all you can really talk about is the technique. Anything more than that is just self-congratulatory posturing."  
  
Dan peeked at the snide man and saw his face flush with embarrassment and anger when Walter said 'self-congratulatory'; he had obviously mistaken Walter's inexpensive clothes and careworn face for lack of culture. Muttering a few things about 'education' and 'overt subtext,' the man beat a hasty retreat.  
  
Dan laughed as loud as he dared in the quiet gallery. "Well," he said through his chuckles, "I guess he'll think twice about reading something into an artist's work."  
  
Walter's lip curled in dismissal. "Artists are part of the problem. Can't hold their work up on its own merits anymore, can't make trees look like trees. They have to leave it 'open to interpretation,' whoring themselves out for anyone with money and opinions to tell them what their own work really means." Another cold, sharp smile, blade facing inward. "It's a living, I suppose."  
  
And with that self-harming smile Dan knew, knew with all the certainty of divine revelation, what had been hidden from him all this time.  
  
Walter was an _artist_.


	5. Chapter 5

The click of the Go board returned Dan to himself. He looked down to see Walter, smiling sharply, pointing to his tile in the last feasible spot on the board, capturing a group of tiles that Dan had completely missed. "I'll be damned," Dan said with a warmer smile. "Always have to have the last word, huh?"  
  
They put away the tiles and tallied the points; Dan had still won, but by much less of a margin than he originally expected. "I think our next game is going to have to be at the Gunga," he said, snapping the lid onto the tile cup. "It's getting too cold to be out all night."  
  
"I've been colder," Walter said, "but you have a point."  
  
"Want to head over there now? I could use another coffee."  
  
Walter shook his head. "No. Have to go. Prior engagement."  
  
"Ah." Dan tucked the board and cup into his leather satchel, slinging it over his shoulder and biting back the questions. What kind of engagement? Was there a model coming to pose for him? (He could clearly envision a modest studio, lights artfully highlighting a nude figure, maybe a dancer, as he posed in some heroic arrangement. Walter was a sculptor, he was sure, hands worn from chisel and clay, clever fingers shaping life from stone.) "Maybe tomorrow, then?"  
  
Walter grunted. "Maybe. Depends on how the engagement goes. Will call tomorrow."  
  
"Sure thing." Dan extended his hand, Walter wrapping his strong fingers around it and squeezing just hard enough. "See you later then, buddy."  
  
Walter gripped Dan's hand, staring at him with those sharp blue eyes, and drew a breath as if about to speak. Then he exhaled and let go (another second or two and it might have been a cling rather than a handshake). "Be seeing you, Daniel." Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, Walter walked out of the park, not looking back once.  
  
Dan watched him go before heading off in the opposite direction, refusing to identify or acknowledge the sudden ache in his chest.  
  
**  
  
Walter clenched his hands around the ropes that bound his wrists to the bedposts, bit down hard on the gag and tried not to think of Daniel.  
  
He hoped the man would finish soon. He was new, come to him on recommendation after hearing that Walter could take a lot of punishment (which he could). The fresh cane marks on Walter's pale back burned as the john's sweat dripped onto them, thick fingers bruising skinny freckled hips as he was fucked hard. Walter breathed noisily through his nose, but it couldn't drrwn out the obscene sounds of the creaking bedpost, the wet slap of flesh, the high, gleeful almost-giggles the man made, relishing in the abuse of his power. (The sounds were worse than the pain and the sweat; pain could be masked and hidden away, but anyone could hear a sound, even if they chose to ignore it.)

Walter didn't want to think about Dan at times like this, but the more time Walter spent with him, the harder it was to resist. Dan didn't deserve to be dragged into the mud and filth of this act, not after giving Walter so much, all the things he'd dreamed of (good conversation, companionship, someone who smiled when he saw Walter, like it made him happy just to _see_ him).   
  
But at moments like this, when pain filled Walter's senses until he feared he might drown of it, he cast his mind to Daniel. It was so easy to picture Daniel concentrating on the Go board with chin in hand, Daniel nearly raising his voice as he argued for a cause he championed, Daniel laughing in an art gallery after he had driven off an ignorant fop. And when it was especially bad (the man fisted one meaty hand in Walter's bright hair and pulled hard, his thrusts erratic, Walter gasping for air and swallowing dryly around the cloth in his mouth), Walter imagined going to Daniel's brownstone. Sitting at Daniel's kitchen table, small, ugly and warm with its adorably tacky owl potholders. Allowing Daniel to peel back the layers of clothing that hid him away, to see his bruises and welts and cuts (and shame), and bind him up with gentle hands over soft bandages, brew hot tea with honey, be his friend even after seeing his true face...  
  
With a groan and a shudder, the john finally stilled and withdrew, clumsily kneeing his way off the hotel bed. Walter lay still, trying to even out his breathing as the man went to the bathroom, disposing of the condom and toweling the sweat from his bulk before (almost an afterthought, it seemed) coming back and untying Walter's bound arms.   
  
Walter flexed his muscles, back burning, arms aching (sore to his core), tracing the rope burns that adorned his wrists. Everything hurt, whether moving or sitting still, but he was silent as he dressed himself in his suit and put the ropes, condoms and lube back into his black briefcase. (Pain was easy to mask.)  
  
"She sure was right," the man said jovially, straightening his tie. There was no hint of shame; he had done this before, if not with Walter. "You're a class act, kid. I might be back in town next week. Think you're free?"  
  
 _No!_ surged to the tip of Walter's tongue, crashing into his clenched teeth, but he thought of the cold weather (and what next month meant) and grunted noncommittally. "Got my number," he said, low and quiet. "We'll see." With that (having been paid at the beginning of the session, always cash up front), Walter smoothed down the front of his pinstriped suit, shrugged on his trenchcoat, grabbed his briefcase and walked out.   
  
Walter Kovacs was the very image of the respectable entrepreneur, striding with purpose through the lobby, and if he was swallowing down nausea with the ease of long practice, well... no one else needed to know.


	6. Chapter 6

T'was the week before Christmas, and all through the city, the whores and the junkies weren't looking so pretty.  
  
Walter took a drag off his cigarette and leaned his head back, letting his frozen breath mix with the smoke as it swirled into the cold neon light of 42nd St. The combined genius of Veidt Industries and Dr. Manhattan had rendered cigarettes non-toxic, so this was an acceptable compromise. (Some days, he was certain that he would have compromised regardless, just to have something warm in the long dark night.) Other compromises, however, were not.  
  
That lack of compromise was the reason Walter was walking the streets tonight, instead of being holed up in one of Leslie's velvet-draped boudoirs, glowering with thinly-disguised menace at the incoming patrons, advertising violence. Leslie had come to him more than once, elegance and wealth in his shabby kitchen, a riding crop in her smile. She said he had "a gift," offered him "a partnership," promising him the connections and backing he'd need to go high-class, stop bending over backwards for sweaty middlemen in mid-priced hotels, and all for a modest kickback. It was legitimate as well, Walter knew. Leslie wasn't like the King of Skin, didn't use and abuse those in her employ. It was a good gig.  
  
But Walter had made a promise to himself, back when he went into business for himself _(he took a drag on his cigarette; he dropped the empty Draino bottle on the ground)_ , no strings, no pimps, no partners. That was one compromise he wouldn't make.  
  
Walter let out the last gasp of his cig and ground it out under the toe of his boot, one more amidst foundations. He blew on his hands before shoving them into the pockets of his old leather bomber jacket. He wished that he had his trench coat, if only for the few extra inches of hem to protect from the wind chill, but only cops and johns wore trench coats on this street and Walter couldn't afford to be mistaken for either. He needed to look the part, and the tools of the trade (leather bomber jacket, painted-on jeans, thickly-lined eyes, gelled spikes in his bright hair) were like a peacock's plumage, advertising _get it here!_ to the cruising cars. These were the lean times, the hard times, the least wonderful time of the year for a whore. All of his regulars, staunch family men all, were guilted by smiling wives and rosy-cheeked children into staying home, tamping down their baser natures under the tinsel was down from the tree. And Walter was left scraping the bottom of the barrel.  
  
He hadn't had much luck all night, a hundred and fifty bucks for three furtive blowjobs (he charged more on account of the fact that his mouth was still in relatively good condition, unlike the katieheads), and he'd lost the feeling in his toes a few hours ago. It would be dawn soon, and the police would be coming by, making sure that the hustlers were off the street in order to present a thin veneer of respectability to the Christmas tourists. Stamping numb feet in heavy leather boots, Walter turned his tired steps homeward, back to his cold (lonely) apartment.

Halfway to the subway station, his feet shuffled to a halt as he heard grunts and male shouting from further down the alley. Walter hesitated for a moment before inching his way into the mouth of the alley. He hated to see girls getting beat on (it twisted his twelve-year-old guts, trying not to listen to Natty Jack "showing Brandy the ropes" in the next room of the dirty tenement apartment), but these days it was getting harder and harder to tell assault from a trick, a bit of rough trade for a few extra dollars.  
  
What he saw, however, was not what he expected. Oh, there was a scantily-clad woman in punishing heels, as per usual, and more than one leather-coated, topknotted thug. But the difference was that the woman in question was Laurie Jupiter, the Silk Spectre, and she was the one doing the punishing.  
  
Being a technical criminal, Walter's instincts told him to run like hell, but he found himself frozen with more than cold, watching her take on three burly gangbangers as easily as breathing. Her kicks held more weight than her punches, aided as they were by those terrifying shoes, but the whole package was formidable as she twisted and lashed out at one man's knee, dropping both him and the length of chain he wielded (his muscles ached in sympathy with her, recalling long hours on the mats at the Y).   
  
Then, behind her back, one of the Knot Tops brandished a knife, and all bets were off.  
  
Stooping quickly, Walter grabbed the first piece of detritus that came to hand, a chunk of wood from a broken loading crate, and hurled it at the man. It bounced harmlessly off the thug's leather jacket, but it drew his attention long enough for Walter's second projectile, an empty beer bottle, to smash into his head with a dull but satisfying thunk. With a roar of rage and adrenaline (a mask for his fear), Walter launched himself at the nearest gang member, catching him around the waist and pushing him to the ground.   
  
Silk Spectre lashed out with a kick to the head of the kneecap-ed thug (tried to get up, stayed down this time), following it with another kick to the head of the bleeding thug (tried to get up, stayed down this time) before whirling to find the short redheaded man straddling the final man, laying punch after punch to the thug's blackened, bleeding jaw (never got a chance to get up). "Hey!" she said sharply, making her knight in bomber-jacket armor snap his neck up to glare at her. "I think he's done."  
  
Walter looked down at the unconscious gangbanger before _hurm_ ing in the back of his throat and pushing himself to his feet. His knuckles were raw. His jaw ached where the thug had clocked him. He was shaking, if you knew where to look. He needed a cigarette.  
  
"Thanks for that," Silk Spectre said, as if this was any other night (it was), as if they were any other people (they weren't). "That was a close one."  
  
Walter _hurm_ ed again, patting down his pockets and pulling out his softpack, pulling a single stick out with his mouth. "Got a light?" he growled around the cigarette, not acknowledging the thanks. (Silk Spectre, thanking _him_ for a daring rescue? That was too surreal for 5:30 in the morning.)  
  
"Yeah, sure." To Walter's surprise, her fingers dove into a hidden recess in her filmy belt before pulling out a tiny lighter and a collapsible ball pipe. "Never leave home without them." She lit Walter's smoke first before touching the flame to her own, taking a deep victory drag, a lithe female dragon exhaling with grim glee over the bodies of fallen mercenaries. "Lucky for me you were around. Heading home from a club?"

Walter almost smiled at her naivete, but then caught the look in her dark eyes, too knowing for a girl that young (and dammit, dammit, she _was_ young, and probably freezing in that get-up). "Heh," he said. "Should get yourself a new pimp. Silk was last summer. Latex is in now."  
  
Her eyes flashed with something darker and colder, smoke curling from her curled lip, but Walter's inward-turned smile (blacks tell black jokes, Hispanics tell Portagee jokes, prostitutes tell hooker jokes) told her all she needed to know. "Not taking your own advice, huh?" she said in reply, her smile as cold and darkly amused as Walter's.  
  
"Don't have the legs for it."  
  
A swirl of darkness dropped from the rooftop into the alley, scales and sharp points and billowing cape. "Everyone all right? Spectre?" Nite Owl said, sounding concerned. (Something tugged at Walter's mind like a pinprick, sharp, unexpected and easily forgotten.) You all right, Spectre? I couldn't hear you after we got separated."  
  
"Fine," Silk Spectre said, "all thanks to the Boy Wonder here." She cocked her head at Walter, and Nite Owl stopped breathing. It was subtle, but it was there, and Walter knew a cue when he saw one.  
  
"Hey, stranger," he growled low and inviting, cocking a slim hip, giving his best come-hither grin ( _maybe I'll break two hundred tonight after all_ ). "Like what you see?"  
  
Nite Owl took three full steps backward and swallowed visibly under the cowl, saying nothing. Walter, despite himself, felt a little insulted. "Suck it up, bird boy," he growled less invitingly. "Not contagious." He threw a smile and a half-hearted wink at the perplexed Silk Spectre. "Be seeing you, heroes."  
  
As he turned to go, Silk Spectre called out behind him, "Wait! Can we give you a ride?"  
  
"To the police station?" Walter called over his shoulder, bootheels ringing on concrete as he faded into morning. "Not a chance!"  
  
The dawn chased him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart courtesy of radishface


	7. Chapter 7

Next night, back at the market, middle of business hours. Walter was in a foul mood.

He'd slept later than usual, rising in the golden light of afternoon, feeling thick and sluggish. He'd tried to reach Daniel for a quick dinner and a round of Go, but the one time someone answered, the connection ended after his first word; must have been a wrong number. And worse turning to worst, he hadn't turned a single trick all night. His jaw had stopped throbbing, courtesy of the frigid night air, but he knew that there was a dark purple bloom across his jaw, where last night's thug had clocked him one. That bruise, combined with his haggard features and thickly-corded muscle, had succeeded in scaring the meeker johns into the arms of the pale and pretty smack fairies. No amount of come-hither grins could change that.

Walter breathed on his hands and rubbed them together before shoving them into the pockets of his bomber jacket. He'd left his gloves on the kitchen counter at home (cracked purple leather) and regretted it now. His feet had stopped tingling, despite the three layers of carefully-darned socks he wore, and he could no longer feel the weight of the switchblade in his boot. And as the final nail in the night's coffin, it started to snow. Snowflakes peppered his hair, dusted the mascara on his lashes, refusing to melt. The traffic changed, less personal vehicles, more yellow taxis (less family sedans cruising slowly by). Walter swore under his breath and turned to go home. Rent wasn't cheap in the city, and neither was heat. He'd leave the heat off tonight, add a few extra blankets, see if that could make it stretch. (Daniel would have lent him money, would have _given_ him money, if the thought hadn't stuck in his throat like a cloth gag.)

Walter turned up the sheepskin collar of his jacket, frozen leather creaking as he zipped it. He turned off 42nd, passing Brandy's corner on his way to the subway. Brandy was another entrepreneur, a head and a half taller than Walter, dark mocha skin and towering afro making her a landmark, a beacon in the night, a Zulu goddess in a leopard-print halter top. If she wasn't bending far, far down to lean against the open window of a john's car, she usually had a smile for Walter, one pro to another. But she wasn't there. _Even goddesses stay indoors on a night like this,_ he thought, and amended it with the fervent hope that she actually _was_ indoors.

A low hissing noise sounded from the alley he passed, loud in the snowy hush. " _Psst!_ " Walter whipped around, fists clenched, ready for whoever was lurking in the shadows at the alley's mouth. He relaxed, however, when he spotted the length of cape billowing out behind the dim figure. Nite Owl.

Walter was more than a little surprised that the man had returned (Nite Owl was no Ozymandias, after all, and Leslie had never made a secret of her dalliance with the avian hero), but he wasn't about to look a gift owl in the... beak. "Well," he crooned low and gravelly, silk over sandpaper. "Come to take a walk on the wild side, bird boy?"

 

"A grand," was all Nite Owl said, his voice gruff and abrupt, his goggles glinting in the sodium streetlight. It was all he needed to say. (Something gray and indistinct rested heavy in the hero's arms, draped like a body.)

Walter's breath caught, all flirtations gone. A grand? A _thousand dollars_? That was... he could pay this month's rent, and the heat until maybe March, and he wouldn't have to go back on the streets until after Christmas, until the phone started ringing again. But to offer _a thousand dollars_... "So, what would I-"

"Not paying you to ask questions," Note Owl interrupted, like he wanted the words out of his mouth before they burned him.

Walter's stomach sank like lead, imagining all of the many, many services that could be bought with a grand. It would be painful, Walter knew, and humiliating. But Walter had bartered in pain and humiliation since he was ten years old, and he was a master at his craft. "Deal," Walter said with more confidence than he felt, canting a hip carelessly to one side. "Where and when?"

Without reply, Nite Owl pointed down the alley. Putting a hint of swagger in his step, Walter strode past the man, not looking at him. Because of this, he stumbled as the gray (white) thing in Nite Owl's arms dropped thick and heavy over his shoulders. A dappled winter cloak, fur instead of feather; it looked ridiculous, but his hands started to tingle with restored warmth, so he pulled it closer and followed his trick down the alley.

The ship was waiting in a vacant lot, golden window-eyes glowing. Nite Owl pointed some kind of device at the craft and a door in its smooth rounded side opened with a pneumatic hiss, lowering itself into a ramp. Walter paused for a moment, self-preservation warring with necessity. A hustler's life was dangerous and short, and Walter did not live to his mid-twenties by being incautious. This was a man above the law, who could easily overpower him and kill him in one of several ways, who stood at the door to the craft which could so easily dispose of his remains, watching him with something like (concern?) anxiousness...

...but it was a _thousand_ dollars...

Walter swallowed, hitched the cloak closer, and followed Nite Owl onto the ship.

The warmth hit him like a wave, like a wall (like a fist). A red flush bloomed across Walter's ears and cheekbones, making his bruise throb and ache. His mouth was dry. He jumped as the door shut behind him with a hiss and a click.

"Coffee's there," Nite Owl said, gesturing brusquely to a pot set into the wall before sitting in the pilot's chair. At that moment, Walter couldn't care if it was drugged, laced or spiked, as long as it was liquid and it was hot. He poured himself a cup as Nite Owl's gauntleted hands fluttered over the control console, making the ship hum and whine under cunning fingers (Walter hissed as the coffee he was pouring spilled onto his hand, penance for his inattention).

He sipped the dark, bitter brew, grimacing at the taste, before Nite Owl spoke again. "Sugar's in the cupboard above you. Take as much as you like. But," he flipped a last switch and grasped the steering throttle firmly, "you might want to hang onto something first."

 

The coffee nearly went flying out of Walter's hand as the ship lurched, once back, one forth, before rising gently and steadily through the falling snow, flurries of white ghosting past the craft's windows. Gripping the shelf in his free hand, the coffee was forgotten as they rose higher and higher. New York's bridges and spires shone through the night like glittering stalagmites in a crystal cave. Walter, who had never been more than a few stories up in his life, was struck by a pang of perspective. Down where he lived, in the filth and garbage and neighbors packed in like so many rats, he wallowed in humanity, seeing all of its pores and scabs and ingrown hairs up close. But here, in the distant clouds, seeing only the beauty of nature and the extent of man's mastery over it in concrete and steel, Walter could finally, _finally_ see while tourists called his city... "Beautiful."

It wasn't until Nite Owl craned his head back that Walter realized that he's spoken aloud. He threw his head back, gaze lazy and defiant until the other man turned away. He never did that in front of a john before. When he was on the clock, Walter's job was to be whatever the john wanted, whatever his image of the ideal man was. He couldn't afford to let himself seep through, especially not now.

Thankfully, Walter busied himself with his coffee, sugaring it, drinking it, refilling it, all the while casting fleeting glances at the world beyond the windows. They circled over the cityscape, skimmed over the river and (Walter almost choked on his sip) plunged beneath it, churning through the murky depths of the Hudson and down the Stygian blackness of a tunnel.

Only after the craft shuddered its way onto a solid surface and the engine stopped humming did Walter realize that they were here... wherever "here" was. "So..." Walter began, trying for causal and missing the mark. "We doing this in here, or you have a place? I mean, not the first time I've worked in a car, but this is pretty much the nicest-"

"Shut up!" Nite Owl barked, his voice cracking into something higher, something more human (something Walter knew, oh God, oh God no). He surged up from his chair, and he would have been imposing in the full light if he hadn't been pulling his gloves off and throwing them down like a child having a tantrum. "Just... shut _up_! You know, I... thought I could deal with this. All the way here, I thought... fuck, man!"

Bare hands pulled at his goggles, his cowl. Matted brown hair, unfocused, pleading eyes. "I thought you were an _artist!_ "

Daniel.

Walter's coffee cup splashed his boots as it hit the brushed steel floor.


	8. Chapter 8

"Look," Dan began, but Walter had already shoved off the cloak and dashed to the handleless door, scrabbling with desperate fingers at the seams and grooves in the metal, punching random keys in the door keypad with no response. "Look, just calm down, you don't have to- Walter!" Walter had reached into his left boot for something and was now pounding with it on the keypad, the _bang-bang-bang_ almost drowning out his increasingly frantic gasps for breath. "Dammit, Walter, don't!"  
  
Dan lunged for Walter, bare fingers curling around leather as he pulled him away and to him, back to front, restraining him with one arm across his chest. "Fuck, man, dont-!" A quiet _snikt_ interrupted Dan as he suddenly found himself with the edge of a switchblade pressed taut to the soft flesh where his head met his neck. His arm rose and fell with Walter's hissing gasps.  
  
"Daniel," Walter said hoarsely, like he was trying for firm but could only manage desperate. "Let me go."  
  
Dan wanted to swallow, but the blade was so close that he didn't want to risk it. "You wouldn't," he managed to get out. "I know you wouldn't."  
  
"Like you knew I was an _artist_?" Walter shot back, his voice high with strain. "Daniel. Let. Me. _Go._  
  
Now Dan really wanted to swallow. "Okay, okay," he said, slowly moving his arm up and clear. "See, I'm letting you go. It's all right, just... don't hit the keypad."  
  
As soon as Dan's arm was clear, the blade disappeared from his throat. Walter spun around, brandishing the blade like a street tough (which he technically was, oh shit). "Open the door, Daniel," he demanded, low and rough. "You can't keep me here."  
  
 _Like hell I can't!_ Dan thought fiercely. He'd been tortured all day, all damn _day_ with what he now knew about Walter, going back in his mind over months of games and discussions, cursing himself for missing the signs. No way in _hell_ was he letting his friend go back out into that life. "No," he said, and then regretted it as Walter's hand tightened on the blade, bracing for a blow. (The suit would protect him, unless he went for the eyes...)  
  
"Two thousand!" Dan said suddenly. The words seemed to echo in the small metallic space.  
  
Walter's mouth fell open in shock. He'd assumed that the sum Nite Owl had offered (Daniel, Daniel the ornithologist, so many things made sense now) had been fake, a ruse to get him into the ship so that he could be spoken to (denounced? exiled?) in private. But to have the money not taken away, but increased, doubled...  
  
For a moment, Walter thought he was going to vomit. The sensation passed, though, replaced with a bitter, angry professionalism. "You want it that bad?" he growled, throwing aside the switchblade and peeling off his jacket, rough angry jerks. "Fine."  
  
Down to his thermal shirt, he reached for Dan's utility belt, only to find the other man on the other side of the ship, pressed against the wall as if trying to melt into it. "Whoa! Hey! No!" Dan held up his hands. " _No._ I didn't mean... God, I didn't mean that!"  
  
Feeling naked (and ashamed), Walter crossed his arms, ducking his head and glowering at Dan through mascaraed lashes. "What, then?"  
  
Dan took a deep breath and rubbed a hand over his face. "Okay, I'm going to try to be more clear," he began shakily. "I don't want you going back out on the streets. So I'll give you two thousand dollars if you agree to stay here." _Where I can keep an eye on you._  
  
Walter arched a single brow. "And do what?"  
  
"Anything. Nothing! Whatever you want!" Dan insisted. You just have to stay here. And not... go out. Until... Christmas, maybe. Deal?" Dan held out his hand, earnest and pleading.

Walter was confused, to say the very least. Two thousand dollars for what amounted to a week's holiday in a Midtown brownstone? It was a laughable idea, every working girl and guy's fairy tale, but Walter's business sense took over before he could question it. "Half up front?"  
  
"Okay." Dan looked as if he was willing to pony up the entire amount as long as Walter agreed to stay, but Walter wasn't about to push his apparent good fortune.   
  
"Deal." He grasped Dan's hand and pumped it once, brisk and abrupt, nothing like their friendly handshakes goodbye.  
  
Dan sighed (equal parts relief and sadness) and moved to the door, punching a sequence into the keypad. "Come on, buddy," he said over the pneumatic hiss of the door. "Let's get you settled. And get you your money."  
  
Walter felt nauseous again. This was going to be a long week.  
  
**  
  
Dan was as good as his word. He asked Walter to wait in the kitchen while he fetched the money, returning in short order and counting out hundreds, fifties and twenties onto the Formica table. Walter sat in his chair, eyes dull, guts heavy. He'd dreamed of this moment, letting it carry him through his worst clients. He was sitting in Dan's kitchen, his secrets revealed and laid bare, and Dan wasn't turning him away. But Dan wasn't brewing hot tea with honey, wasn't binding up his wounds. He stood in bronze armor, a paragon of justice, and hired a prostitute to keep other men from fucking him. This wasn't what he wanted. It was a parody, a mockery, and Walter felt only shame.  
  
Dan noticed Walter's shudder as he collected the money and shoved it in the pocket of his jeans. "You must be freezing," Dan said. "Why don't you take a quick shower? Come on, I'll show you where everything is."  
  
Walter knew better than to say no to a john, so he mutely followed Dan up the stairs, mechanically accepting towels from the linen closet, not responding to Dan's meager joke about not using all the hot water. Only when he was stripped and lathering under the shower's spray did his mind seem to thaw along with the rest of him. He couldn't take this, not for a week, not for a minute. He couldn't let himself believe that Dan was doing this out of the goodness of his heart. (If he was wrong, it would break him.) There _had_ to be a way out of this.  
  
The mascara left dark trails down Walter's sharp face, and he thought.  
  
**  
  
"This _has_ to work."  
  
The words sounded feeble in the cavernous space of the Owl's Nest. Dan (out of his armor and into his glasses, Dan Dreiberg once again) shrugged into the old sweatshirt and ratty pair of jeans he left in the Nest and thought. There had to be a way to keep Walter here, at least for the night (or morning, rather). Dan had no idea where his apartment was, no idea if he had family or other friends. If he bolted now, Dan might never find him again.  
  
Dan sniffed at the collar of his sweatshirt and made an idle note to do laundry in a few days when the answer hit him. It wasn't a permanent measure, and he'd have to act fast, but it was better than nothing. Heading back up to the second floor, Dan made his way to the bathroom door and paused. The water was still running, a good sign. Silent as an owl in flight, Dan eased the door open and spied the pile of clothes puddled on the bathroom floor. He scooped up the clothes, one eye on the shower curtain, but he managed to get out with his prize without a peep from his new house guest.   
  
Sliding the door shut, Dan moved double-time back to the basement, hurriedly dumping everything but the jacket and boots into the washer and starting it. He'd "forget" to put them in the dryer and leave them until morning, when a good night's sleep and a hot breakfast might make Walter a little more inclined to the idea.   
  
Leaning against the washer, holding Walter's jacket, he reached into the inner pocket and felt along the wad of cash nestled there. _Not one of my better moments,_ he thought, _but hey, at least it worked. And it's a damn sight better than the alternative._ Folding the worn jacket and draping it across the churning washer, he made his way up to his bedroom and rummaged through his drawers for suitable sleepwear to offer his guest.  
  
In the bathroom, the water shut off.

**

Dan eyed the sweatpants skeptically. A plain white undershirt was easy enough to procure, but pants were more difficult. These were definitely too long and wide for his shorter friend, but they were drawstring and would have to do. They'd go out and get Walter some proper clothes in the morning. Folding the garments neatly, Dan made his way to the bathroom door, meaning to leave them outside it.  
  
Walter was leaning against the door, one leg propped up against the wood. One fist gathered the towel at his waist, letting it sling low across his narrow hips. "Something happened to my clothes, Daniel." Silk over sandpaper. "You know where they went?"  
  
Dan's mouth went dry. Though free of gel, the bright hair stayed spiked from a vigorous toweling. Traces of eyeliner remained, lending a smoky intensity to Walter's lazy-lidded gaze. Stray drops of water dotted his shoulders like his freckles, pooling in his collarbones, trickling down defined arms, down broad chest and flat abs, down, down to (oh dear God) a faint, burnt orange treasure trail of hair (which led down, down, down to the towel and what lay beyond it...)  
  
All of Dan's breath seemed to leave him in a rush. He was hit with the same spike of intense arousal as he had been last night in the alley, but without the protection of Nite Owl to hide his reaction. Walter left his head fall back against the door, throat bared and begging for lips to caress and suckle there. The hand not holding his towel up moved in teasing strokes up his torso to his collarbone and down again, drawing the eye along it. He was beautifully wanton, open and ready and (Dan saw his hooded eyes, his brittle smile, the tight line of his shoulders) absolutely terrified...  
  
"You're doing this on purpose," Dan accused. Walter blinked in surprise, his head coming up from the door. "You are!" Dan continued. "You're trying to get me to sleep with you! That, or trying to offend my 'delicate sensibilities.'" Dan smiled as a faint blush crept over Walter's pale chest. "What's that going to get you? Want me to kick you out? Or take you to bed, like all the other guys?" Walter turned his head away, pulling his towel higher, making a low "ehnnk" in his throat (like he did when Dan made a good move in Go, and there was his friend again). Dan walked right up to Walter, waiting until he firmed his jaw and met his eyes, defiant blue with placid brown.   
  
"Try all you like, buddy," Dan said, "but I'm in for the long haul. Here." He tipped the clothes he held into Walter's free arm. "You can use these while your clothes are in the wash. I don't know about you, but I'm beat. I'm gonna hop in the shower and then get to bed. Guest room's two doors down if you want to turn in. See you in the morning." Another smile and Dan ducked into the steamy bathroom, locking the door behind him before fumbling his jeans open, roughly palming his suddenly painful erection (biting his free hand to contain his moans).  
  
It was going to be a long week.

**

Walter stood in the hall until he heard the shower water run, lost and confused. That was his only plan, and now that it had failed, he wasn't sure what to do. Theoretically, he could take the money and run, but a thousand dollars wasn't enough to relocate to a new town and if word got out that he was the type of hustler to take money and run, he'd never get his client base back. His only plan was to get Dan to throw him out on his ear (or get him to take his money's worth; either way, he wouldn't have to hope anymore).   
  
Tired and shell-shocked, Walter made his way into the guest room and changed into the clothes Dan had given him. The guest bed looked inviting, piled high with blankets and pillows, even a down comforter. (He wondered how many guests Dan had.) With a sigh, Walter climbed between the sheets, letting the weight of the coverlets settle over him.   
  
He couldn't believe what had happened. He'd thrown himself Dan like a whore, practically rolling out the red carpet for Dan to fuck him. But Dan hadn't. He'd smiled, and given him pajamas that smelled of laundry detergent, and bade him goodnight in a warm bed. (It wasn't hot tea with honey. It was better.)  
  
The oil heater in the basement hummed and hot water gurgled through the radiator pipes.   
  
Walter fell asleep, warm inside and out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart courtesy of simshocking


	9. Chapter 9

Walter woke late again, thin orange light streaming through the curtains. Remembered shame kept him in bed until the smell of food and his own hunger pried him out. Shuffling down the stairs, he had peered into the kitchen to find Daniel making French toast. "Perfect timing," Dan said without turning around; it took Walter a moment to realize he was talking to him. "I just finished these up," Dan continued, looking over his shoulder. "Come on and sit down. We might as well eat while your clothes dry, and then we can go pick up some stuff."   
  
Pinned in place by Dan's smile, Walter had no choice but to sit down, waiting for last night to be addressed. But Dan didn't say anything (through the evening meal of French toast and coffee, through finding a spare wool coat as Walter dressed, through walking down the street to the subway station, through the ride into Midtown). It was the longest he'd ever been in Dan's company without speaking; Walter was so on edge that he felt like he was about to crawl out of his skin. "Daniel," he began, the name heavy and reluctant on his tongue.  
  
"Let's get off here, okay?" Dan interrupted. "There's a great coffee shop near the center, and then we can walk down to Macy's."  
  
Walter's jaw snapped shut with an audible click and his chest ached with more than cold as he followed Dan through the dark of early evening, gray slush clinging tenaciously to gray pavement, lights lining 5th Avenue in a cavalcade of color. So Dan didn't want to talk to him. That was fair, that was more than fair. He'd behaved like a whore instead of a friend, and would be treated as one; speak when spoken to, do as you're told. Free will was for after cash in hand.  
  
Consequently, he was surprised when Dan guided him into Rockefeller Center, stepping up to the rail that looked down on the ice rink, and said, "Okay. Now let's talk."  
  
"About?" The lights on the Rockefeller Tree shone in a dazzling array, twinkling and sparkling over the revolving ice skaters on the rinks. Walter leaned his elbows on the railing and tightened his fingers around his steaming cup of coffee (trying to ignore the comfortable warmth of Dan's arm pressed against his, elbow to shoulder, and the relief he felt at the proximity). Dan just shot him a warning look; Walter shrugged in reply. "Why couldn't we talk inside, where it's warm?"  
  
Dan studied the skaters for a moment before exhaling in a cloud of frozen breath. "Growing up," he said, quiet enough to not be overhead by anyone but Walter, "my father was... an opinionated man. He wanted what was best for me, I always knew that, but he had a... a pretty narrow idea of what was best. It got to the point that it seemed I couldn't turn around without him telling me how I should act differently, be different." Dan paused to sip at his own coffee. "After he died, I went back to the old house, sort through all the stuff, you know? And I couldn't walk into a single room without remembering at least one argument we had." Colored lights glinted off Dan's glasses as he looked at Walter, all semblance of cheer gone from his face. "My house isn't going to be like that. If we're going to fight," a small smile, "and knowing you, we just might, we're not going to do it in the house."  
  
Walter's brows creased into a frown. "Don't want to fight, Daniel," he said just as quiet as Dan.  
  
"You don't know how glad I am to hear that. But I want to help you, and I can't unless you talk to me and tell me what's going on with you."

"Help me?" The words tasted bitter in Walter's mouth; not even sipping his over-sweet coffee removed it. "How? Am I your new charity case, Daniel?"  
  
"What? No! You're my friend, Walter, and in case you don't know what that means," Walter winced, eyes going tight, "it means that I don't want you living... I just want-"  
  
"Want what's best for me?"  
  
Dan blinked at having his words thrown back at him before setting his jaw. "Yes. I do want what's best for you. And if you can look me in the eyes and tell me that you're living the best life you could possibly lead, then we'll never speak of this again. Go ahead."  
  
Walter tried. He tried to look Dan straight in his (warm, deep brown) eyes and say those very words. But he remembered a tight mouth under high-tech goggles, and the burning shame that seared him only a few hours ago, and he couldn't lie to Dan like he did to himself. "Can't see how I can get any better than what I've got," he muttered, more to himself than Dan.  
  
Dan relaxed visibly, shoulders drooping with the loss of tension. "Well, by my count, I've got about a week to convince you otherwise. So... how'd you get into this gig, anyway? Foreclosure? Gambling debts?"  
  
"Family business."  
  
"...oh." Walter refused to look at Dan, keeping his gaze on the skaters, going round and round and round. "Ever tried to get out? I mean, there's got to be other things you can do."  
  
"Jobs these days require high school diploma, require job experience. I don't have either. The best job I could probably get right now would be working in some sweatshop for less than minimum wage, living in some broken-down coldwater tenement where the landlady has five children from five fathers." Walter's long fingers twitched around the coffee cup, itching for a cigarette. "You see, Daniel, there are rules to hooking. Follow all the rules, and you can make decent money as well as staying alive long enough to use it. They aren't complicated. Don't drink. Don't take smack. Cash up front. Don't kiss them on the lips. Never, ever go into a partnership." He closed his eyes, feeling tired. "My mother broke that last one. Her pimp killed her, and then he drafted me."  
  
Walter knew what the next question was going to be, could almost hear it struggling its' way past Dan's teeth. "...how old were you?"  
  
"Ten."  
  
There was a faint _crunch_ and Dan hissed in pain. "Shit!" He dropped the crushed cup on the pavement at his feet, stripping off his coffee-soaked gloves and sticking his hands on a patch of snow at his feet. "Sorry," he said to Walter as he examined his reddened fingers, patting himself down for a handkerchief, not looking at him. "Sorry, I... serves me right for not-"  
  
"It's all right, Daniel." Walter held out the gloves that he'd collected off the ground. "Long time ago."  
  
Dan took his gloves back, turning them over in his hands. "Who was he?"  
  
"Natty Jack Delmonico."  
  
"Where can I find him?"  
  
Walter smiled, sharp as ice. "Greenwood Cemetery?"  
  
Dan smiled too, a cold mirror of Walter's. It looked wrong on his face. "Good." He shoved the gloves into his coat pocket. "I think we talked enough for now. Let's go."  
  
Walter nodded, and followed.

**

They never made it to Macy's. On their way down 5th Ave., passing brightly lit window displays, Dan stopped in front of one, so abruptly that Walter took a few steps before noticing. "Daniel?"  
  
"Here's what we want," Dan said, taking Walter's elbow and drawing him towards the revolving doors.  
  
"Daniel!" Walter hissed under his breath. "We can't go in here! This is... this is _Saks_!"  
  
Saks 5th Avenue was huge and brightly lit, sparkling white and velvet red trappings for the Christmas season. Artfully-draped mannequins posed to display wools and silks that not even Walter's clients could generally afford. Instrumental carols wafted through the store like a breeze. The air smelled expensive, heavy with perfumes and colognes. In his too-big coat and flat hair, Walter felt like a sitting duck.  
  
"Can I help you?" The tone made it clear that the speaker expected a negative answer. A balding man in a suit and a name tag stepped out from the arrangement of racks to their right, eyebrows raised in unconcealed skepticism.  
  
"I hope so!" Dan replied brightly, as if the subtle cues had drifted right past him. "I was wondering if we could talk to the manager."  
  
"I am the manager," the man said brusquely, pointing to his name tag: _E. Harvey, Floor Manager._  
  
"Great," Dan said. Walter wondered what he was playing at, and when they could leave. "Can you look up if my father's account is still active, or do I have to open a new one?"  
  
"Account?" Mr. Harvey echoed. "Which one would that be?"  
  
"Dreiberg."  
  
As Walter watched Mr. Harvey's face turn a shade paler, he felt realization sink into his stomach. He knew Dan's last name, of course, but he'd never really suspected that Daniel, _his_ Daniel, with his Sears-catalog clothes and tacky owl potholders, was one of _those_ Dreibergs, the ones that were mentioned in the same breath as Rockefeller, Carnegie and Veidt. (But then, he never expected that his friend was a feared vigilante, either.)  
  
Dear God. A hustler was best friends with a billionaire.  
  
"Of course!" Mr. Harvey suddenly sounded much more accommodating. "Mr. Dreiberg, forgive me, I should have recognized you right away, look so much like your late father, God rest his soul. Of course your account is still open, good heavens, perish the thought! What can we do for you tonight?"  
  
Walter felt a warm hand clap onto his shoulder. "A wardrobe for my friend here. Head to toe, if you please."  
  
"Certainly, Mr. Dreiberg! I'll go and clear someone for a fitting and we can start right away." Mr. Harvey scuttled off, commissionary glee putting a spring in his step.  
  
Walter rounded on Dan. "Daniel!" he hissed as quietly as he could. "What are you _doing_?"  
  
"You needed new clothes." Butter would not melt in that blankly innocent mouth.  
  
"Need a few things for the week, Daniel, not a new wardrobe! Cannot-" Walter took a deep breath; he had a tendency to drop his pronouns when he was upset. "I can't afford all this."  
  
"I can," Dan replied simply. "Call it an early Christmas present."  
  
"...you're Jewish."  
  
"Then call it a late Hanukkah present! Jesus!" Dan ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's the holidays. You're my friend. You deserve something nice."  
  
"Don't deserve all this," Walter said, examining the shining tiles. "You haven't known me all that long. How can you-?"  
  
"You're the first person that's honestly given a damn about me since my mother died," Dan's voice was flat and deadly serious. "You taught me how to disagree with someone and stand up for what I think. I think that worth a few clothes."  
  
And Walter was going to say something else, was going to tell Dan just how wrong he was, but he couldn't swallow down the lump in his throat before Mr. Harvey came tripping back and announced that the fitting room was awaiting their convenience.


	10. Chapter 10

"You call this a gift, Daniel?"  
  
"Sure I do. You get new clothes, and I get entertainment. It's the gift that keeps on giving."  
  
Walter _ennhk_ -ed at that and rolled his shoulders irritably, making the woman taking his inseam ask him to please hold still, sir. Daniel hid his grin in a yawn, trying not to stare (too obviously) at the impressive sight of his friend stripped down to his briefs and being manhandled by a saleslady with a measuring tape.   
  
Of course, any real sex appeal was negated by the terrible scowl on Walter's sharp face, but Dan's initial lust from the night before had banked itself into a slow burn, allowing affection to take its place. His friend's awkwardness at receiving gifts spoke of a deeper history of never receiving them, a cold and lonely childhood (his throat closed again at the thought). Those things couldn't be solved with material possessions, Dan knew. They would take time, patience and consistency before Walter's mind could even recognize the prospect of anything abiding longer than rent-by-the-hour. Dan had time.  
  
In the meantime, though, he could buy Walter a few nice things, and begin as he meant to go on.  
  
"What color did you want for the suit, sir?" the saleslady asked, making notes on a clipboard.  
  
"Purple," Walter said, thinking back to the cheap suit in his closet (to the gloves on the countertop). "Pinstriped. Please."  
  
" _Purple_?" the lady echoed, her nose wrinkling slightly. "Pinstripes, yes, but that color with your hair? Are you sure, sir?"  
  
His hair? He'd never registered any clash between his suit and the alarming color of his hair, just had picked something to match his gloves. Walter licked his lips, ready to say "whatever you think appropriate," but Daniel spoke before he could.   
  
"Purple," he said evenly, and that was all. The lady gave a your-funeral shrug and made another note on the clipboard.  
  
After too much time for Walter's liking, he was allowed to shimmy his way back into his jeans and roam the store while Daniel talked about fabric options and delivery schedules. He quickly learned to keep his hands in his pockets as he walked; after Daniel caught him running a finger over the lapel of a thick canvas trench coat, he had added it to the order and shook his head with a smile at Walter's glower. Under the bright florescent lights, everything felt a little unreal, like a dream state. Walter supposed that was the whole point, to insulate the self as far away from the real world as possible, cushioned by money or fame.  
  
He wondered why Daniel didn't, why Daniel chose not to cloister himself in ivory-towered academia, but instead to wade through the pimps and pushers at night dressed as a giant bird. Maybe, if they survived the week, if they were still friends instead of a john and his hustler, he'd ask him. (At least about the costume.)  
  
A slow shifting in the corner of the store caught his eye, and he headed over to the clearance section to investigate further. There on a dressmaker's dummy was a dress, made of some kind of latex, a little kinky for Park Ave. crowd. What made it remarkable was that the pattern actually _moved_. Black blotches undulated lazily across the snow-white surface, the two never mixing, never melding. It was absolutely mesmerizing.  
  
"Looks like a lava lamp, doesn't it?" Walter jumped slightly at the voice, turning to see another saleslady, younger and fresh-faced, probably new. "I think so, anyway. People say Dr. Manhattan made it, or inspired it or whatever, so you think people'd be all over it. Guess it was too ugly."  
  
"Not ugly," Walter said under his breath. "Beautiful."  
  
"Know what's really weird?" the girl continued (didn't hear him, didn't listen). "You can actually see through it. Well, obviously not now, but if you put it up to your eyes. Has to do with... molecules or something, I didn't pay attention." Walter's skepticism must have been apparent, since she added "Go ahead and try it! No one's around here except me."

If only to satisfy her enough to make his escape, Walter grasped the dress' hem and lifted it to his eyes. Sure enough, he could see his shoes right though it, clear a day, with only a faint occasional graying out to mark the passing of the black ink. The latex began to warm in his hands, against his eyes, making the black blots shift and coil...  
  
"...sir? Sir?"  
  
Walter lifted his head and stood up straight, looking at the (now less perky) saleslady. Her name tag read "Kitty." "Very beautiful," Walter said and walked away. She didn't protest his leaving.  
  
"There you are!" Daniel said as he made his way back to the store proper. "I thought you might have gotten lost. Find anything else you'd like?"  
  
Walter's mind flashed to the dress, but dismissed the thought immediately. What use would he have for such a garment (unless he was being paid to wear it)? "No."  
  
"That's what I thought you'd say. I had the salespeople pick out some more casual things, jeans and stuff for around the house. Oh, and here!" Daniel pulled something out of his pocket. "I found these on a rack near the front. They're purple, so they might go with your suit. Try them on."  
  
His hands trembling slightly, Walter reached out and took the purple leather gloves from Daniel. They were finely-stitched, richly-dyed and buttery soft, so unlike the cracked, peeling (tainted) pair he had at home. The same one's he'd kept after he pulled them off of Natty Jack's still-warm hands. Pulling one onto his left hand, he fisted his fingers, the leather making a satisfying _squeak_.   
  
They fit.  
  
"Like a glove," Daniel said, pleased with himself (oblivious). "I'll have them tack those on, too. You can wear them home, if you like, it's supposed to snow later."  
  
Walter swallowed and said, "Thank you, Daniel. I think... I needed a new pair."  
  
**  
  
"Oh, hell and damnation."  
  
Walter looked up from his book, curled up as he was in the overstuffed armchair, and glanced over at the desk where Daniel sat, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
  
Two days to Christmas, and Daniel and Walter had not settled into a routine. Routine implied the same things repeated with an air of resignation. This was much more comfortable (more hopeful).   
  
In the days that followed their shopping trip, they had come to a certain accord. They still talked, about politics and history and science and art, but there was not the same need to fill the silences as there was in months previous. And when heavier things did come up, about GEDs and trade schools and options upon options, they would both get their coats and go to the zoo, the Museum of Natural History, the shops in Koreatown, unwilling to foul the air of Daniel's home with the possibility of fading shouts and bad memories. But for the most part, they read and cooked and played Go, and learned how to be quiet with one another.   
  
"There's this case," Daniel began, not looking at Walter. Walter's ears pricked up; he hadn't talked much about Daniel's life as Nite Owl beyond a few gentle ribbings ("dress up like a giant bird and run around, and I'm the one that needed new clothes?"), and Daniel hadn't revealed much, too caught up in Walter. This was new. "I've been working it for a couple of months, but it's been slow going. I hit a dead end two weeks ago, but I've got a snitch working a few things from his end. I'm supposed to meet with him in a few hours, almost forgot about it."  
  
Walter closed the book (a hardbound collection of old pulp stories from the 40s). "And you don't trust me here alone."  
  
Daniel sighed. "To be honest, no, I don't. I don't think you'd welch on the deal, per se, but let's face it, man. You're stubborn as a mule. Sometimes I wonder that you might, you know, twist the situation around in your head, decide that I'm better off with you elsewhere, which, for the record, is untrue. I trust you, Walter, but I don't trust your brain."

Walter would have gotten angry at that, would have spat some kind of biting retort to turn the tide against Daniel, if not for two things: it would break the ironclad no-fighting-indoors rule, and Daniel was completely correct. It was still there, the voice that nagged at Walter to cut his losses, to not get too comfortable, whispering in his ear in the quiet hour between sleeping and waking. It was getting a little easier to ignore when he rose to find breakfast being made, or to have Daniel greet him with a smile over his coffee, but it was there.  
  
"It doesn't matter," Daniel said, but there was a note of conviction lacking in his voice. "It'll probably be nothing, anyway. Just rumors."  
  
"But what if it isn't?" Walter had not meant to talk. He had even gotten as far as resettling himself in the chair and opening his book again before he'd opened his mouth. He didn't want to care, didn't want to force Daniel's hand, but the thought of some heinous crime going unpunished because of his inaction (Brandy screaming behind the closed door, Natty Jack "showing her the ropes") stuck in his throat and refused to be swallowed.  
  
"But what if it isn't," Daniel echoed, not a question. "Well, I guess I can-" He cut himself off; Walter looked back to find Daniel staring at him (or rather, at his book). "Or you could come with me."  
  
"Daniel?"  
  
"Come on!" Daniel got up from his chair and headed for the stairs. "Follow me!"  
  
Curious despite himself, Walter set his book on the table and followed Daniel up the stairs, bare feet skating over Turkish carpet, hardwood, foyer marble. "I can't come with you," Walter said. "You're the vigilante, not me."  
  
"You think I majored in vigilantism?" Daniel retorted, ducking into (Walter's) the guest room and pulling the new suit out of the closet, still pressed from its' yesterday delivery. "Here, put this on," Daniel insisted, thrusting the suit at Walter. "I have to get something. Be right back."  
  
Confused, Walter did so, caught up in Daniel's enthusiasm. He was pulling on his new gloves and smoothing down the sleeves of his jacket as Daniel walked in, a white scarf and brown fedora hat in his grasp. Daniel paused and stared at Walter, something that wasn't really lust in his eyes. Smirking though his self-consciousness, Walter stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and executed a neat heel spin. "What do you think?" he growled.  
  
Daniel's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Looks great," he said a little faintly before handing Walter the hat. "Now try this. It's too small for me, but how do you tell that to a great-aunt in Florida?"  
  
Walter turned it in his hands; the band of color was more dark blue than purple, but it would do. He settled it firmly on his head, ginger locks well concealed, and traced leather fingers around the brim before looking at himself in the closet mirror. "It's a beautiful suit," he said. "So what?"  
  
"So this." Stepping up behind him, Daniel looped the white scarf once around his neck, reaching around Walter to pull it up over the bridge of his nose. Walter inhaled, smelling cologne (something new and soft; Daniel had called it "Nostalgia") and something that could only be Daniel. "Well?" Daniel asked, stepping back.  
  
Walter regarded his reflection again. "...I look like the Shadow."  
  
Daniel laughed, the sound warm and honest. "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?" he quoted before wincing ever-so-slightly (of course, Walter would know).  
  
Walter saw the wince and hated it. He didn't want that to be the lens through which Daniel saw him. So, calling on ancient memories of listening to the radio while his mother was "working," Walter swept an arm up to conceal his scarf mask further. "The Shadow knows!" he croaked in a surprisingly close parody before letting loose an appallingly melodramatic cackle. Daniel was startled into laughing again, and Walter smiled behind his mask (and it was not a sharp smile, nor was it turned inwards).  
  
"So," Daniel said, "you coming with me?"  
  
Walter nodded, and followed. He was still smiling.


	11. Chapter 11

The owlship, which Walter learned was named "Archie" ("Like Archimedes. You know, Merlin's pet owl."), had settled gently in the empty lot, snow crunching and melting under the weight and warmth of its engines. Nite Owl had locked the sealed door with a button at his utility belt before gesturing wordlessly for his smaller companion to follow. Walter (for that was all he was, not the Shadow, just a man in a trench coat and scarf) stayed close, more sharply aware of the shadows and what was lurking in them. He followed Nite Owl (for that was who he was, not Daniel, but a larger-than-life hero) through the twisting maze of back alleys that comprised this more dilapidated corner of Harlem.   
  
Sodium streetlamps flickered fitfully, and here and there strands of Christmas lights wound their way around fire escape iron like bright, blinking ivy. Muffled rock music drifted up through a shut basement window, slightly out of tune; a garage band, then, visions of Woodstock dancing in their heads. There was the crunch of snow underfoot, the sounds of moving traffic, all the noise and life of the city that Walter had nearly forgotten, hibernating as he had been in a thickly-walled brownstone with only the hum of the heater and the crackle of the occasional fireplace blaze to mark the silent nights.  
  
Walter pulled up short as Nite Owl stopped in his tracks, ducking down concrete stairs into a cobwebby alcove, leading to a basement long in disrepair. "We'll wait here for our contact," he said, low and deep as Walter huddled close. Then, barely visible in the orange light, Nite Owl smiled, and was Daniel again. "So," he asked in the same quiet tone, "you excited yet?"  
  
Walter's heart was pounding, but with anticipation instead of fear. It was a novel feeling, and a welcome one. He nodded, and they settled into a cold, companionable silence.  
  
Not but ten minutes later, another sound layered itself over the car-honk breathing of the city: a tuneful whistle, producing some bebop variant on a Christmas carol. The sound and the accompanying crunching of footsteps carried themselves toward their hiding place, and Walter forgot to breathe as anticipation became the more familiar fear. A tall, lanky shadow leaned up against the low wall of the basement stairs, followed by the rustle of pockets and the ting of a cigarette lighter.  
  
"What it is, my fine feathered friend," the shadow drawled in a laconic jive, "and what it is is _cold_." The last word was drawn out in a chatter of teeth. "Man, the more I stay here, the more I think I'm gonna make like my cousin Jermaine and head out to California. Pretty Bay City, with-"  
  
"Salt breeze, palm trees and fiiine women," Daniel interrupted. "Yeah, Huggy, I know."  
  
"I'm serious this time, man!" The man huddled into his spindly frame and turned slightly, giving Walter a better view. He was tall, thin and black with elfin features that seemed better suited to grinning. A newsboy cap was pulled low to cover his ears. "I happen to be Huggy Bear, not Polar Bear. Man was not meant to live in the snow. Man was meant to live where it's warm, and all the foxy ladies ain't bundled up like Eskimos."  
  
"Well, I'd miss you, Hug," Daniel said, "but if you're that anxious to get warm, you better cut the jive and tell me what you found."

All traces of joking disappeared from the man's (Huggy Bear's?) voice. "Yeah, yeah, I hear you. But this ain't no wonderful life, dig? More like the little match girl." He took another puff on the cigarette. "You was right about the disappearing working girls, bird boy. Working boys, too. I mean, hookers come and go, not like they're filing W-2s, but there's been a bunch of them upping stakes without a word. Word on the street is, a lot of pimps are getting a lot of mad. So I talk to Mickey down in Hell's Kitchen, and he tells me that the King of Skin has been picking them up. I don't need to tell you what for."  
  
Walter was too stunned, too angry, too frightened to speak, but Daniel voiced what Walter was absolutely sure of. "Snuff films."  
  
"Fil-thy business," Huggy Bear said. "Must have picked them up now since business is so slow. I mean, who's gonna ruin their Christmas goose over a couple of hookers, right?"  
  
"I am." And Daniel was Nite Owl again, cold and hard, the instrument of justice.  
  
"And that's why you don't get paid, brother."   
  
"Where are the films being made?" Nite Owl asked.  
  
"Down in the docklands. Old converted warehouse, plenty of room, no neighbors." Huggy Bear rattled off an address; Walter could see Nite Owl's lips moving as he memorized it. "It's leased through a dummy company, so don't bother with that. I didn't get the chance to scope out the place, so security info is a no-go. That's all I got, man." Huggy Bear flicked the cigarette into the snowbank and pushed himself nonchalantly from the wall. "Stay cool, birdie. The King of Skin is one bad cat. I'll send you a postcard from Bay City, dig?"  
  
"Thanks, Huggy." And with that, the snitch ambled his way down the back alley, whistling jauntily again.  
  
Walter waited until the sound had died away before reaching up and grabbing Daniel's shoulders (not Nite Owl's), pushing him into the wall with strength borne of rage. "You knew!" Walter hissed. "You _knew_! That's why you gave me that money!" He'd never been so glad to be away from Daniel's house.  
  
"Partly, yes!" Daniel said. "It was just a rumor at the time. I was hoping that tonight would be a wash, that I was just chasing shadows. But-" Daniel pushed his goggles up onto his forehead, looking Walter in the eyes, incensed blue to earnest brown. "I would have done it even if there wasn't a threat at all. I wanted you off the streets, Walter. Does there have to be a reason?"  
  
Walter held his gaze for a moment before pushing Daniel away, shoving balled fists into his pockets. He wanted to pace, but there wasn't enough room. To think that he'd come so close to being snatched away in the night, to be bound and gagged and beaten and then... _then_...  
  
(Brandy hadn't been on her corner, no smiles from the Zulu goddess.)  
  
"I want in on this," Walter said. His voice had dropped to a low, raspy growl.  
  
"No," Daniel said. "No way. A costume is one thing, but you're not exactly a vigilante."  
  
"So I need a degree for it?" Walter threw back at him. "Daniel. I can throw a punch. I can take a punch. I'm quick on my feet. I have a _vested interest_ in this case. I am going with you."  
  
Daniel opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. "And if I say no, you'll bolt and go to the warehouse yourself." It wasn't a question. "Fine. _Fine_. We'll do recon tonight, see what we can find about the layout. Then I have to make a few calls." Daniel folded his arms and shook his head. "I have a feeling that we're going to need some backup for this one."


	12. Chapter 12

"You can't," Dan said. The December wind howled through the concrete canyons, whipping his coat around his ankles as he faced down his friend on the steps of the Public Library.  
  
They had been busy. A preliminary flyover of the address Huggy Bear had provided proved near-fruitless, but Archie's scanners had been able to detect human activity outside the warehouse, a steady circular progression around the building and back to the door: the patrols of (armed) guards. They weren't able to make an assault right away, ill-equipped as they were (it was like a punch to Walter's gut, Dan could see it in the set of his shoulders), so the rest of the night was given over to organization. Dan's notes over the past months were arranged by date and relevance. Street workers were interviewed and statements taken (Walter had a knack for putting them at ease, even with his face hidden and voice disguised). Paperwork, signed statements, photographs, all were sealed in a manila envelope to be delivered to the nearest police station after the raid (they didn't dare let the King of Skin get off on a technicality in case something went wrong).  
  
After a change back into civilian clothes, a greasy breakfast and paint-thinner coffee at a diner, they were at the Public Library before the sun rose over the skyscrapers, pouring over public records of land ownership and warehouse blueprints. (They sat shoulder to shoulder, making silent notes on the same notebook, running on justice and caffeine.) When they felt they'd had enough, of data and of restless labor, they returned the microfiche and the blueprints to the archivists, donned scarves and coats, and stepped out into the weak gray light of December.  
  
Then Walter said he had to go.  
  
"It's just an errand," he insisted, turning up the sheepskin collar of his beaten bomber jacket and glaring up at Dan.  
  
"Then I'll go with you."  
  
"Hurm. Waste of time, Daniel. Waste of energy. Besides, you have calls to make."  
  
"But-" Dan censored himself, raking a gloved hand through his hair. "You can't go now, Walter, we've come so far. And it's not Christmas yet, it's only Christmas Eve!"  
  
"I'll come back," Walter replied. "Meet you at the house. Shouldn't take me more than an hour."  
  
"At least tell me where you're going!"  
  
And Walter would have, he wanted to, but the words stuck in his throat. How could he articulate the rush of memories of standing in line at the library and having the tall bespectacled man behind him comment on the blots on his book cover? How could he communicate the sudden sense of purpose, of rightful destiny, as deep as sunken pirate treasure, and as rare? How could he align that with the normalcy of his errand? "Please," Walter said instead, meeting Dan's eyes. "Trust me."  
  
Dan took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked back at Walter, eyes heavy with apprehension. "Hurry back," he said finally, a confidence in his voice that his eyes did not show.  
  
Walter simply nodded and turned to flag down a cab, his own face carefully impassive. Dan stood on the icy steps and watched the taxi flow seamlessly into traffic, blending and disappearing (until it was as if it had never been there at all), before waving for his own cab.   
  
He had calls to make.

**

The vigilante life was a solitary one, especially since their identities were a closely-guarded secret, even from each other (with the exception of Silk Spectre II, everyone knew who she and her mother were). So, each active vigilante maintained two phone numbers, keeping the spare unlisted and only passed out to those in their line of work, like snitches, informants or friendly policemen.  
  
And other vigilantes.  
  
 _"...he's doing what? Oh, God, that's sick! That's just..._ sick! _You tell me a time and place, Nite Owl, and these heels will go where the sun doesn't shine!"_  
  
"Oh, my word, that does sound reprehensible. Those poor girls. And you did say that Laurie was coming along? Well, of course I'll help. This so-called King of Skin needs a lesson or two in how to treat a lady. Not to mention that if anything happened to Laurie, Sally would have me by the nethers. Very forceful woman."  
  
"I'm not sure if I can spare the time, Nite Owl. I have several cases progressing at the moment, not to mention a few civilian matters of import, and I don't think that... The King of Skin, you said? Well. Well, well. It would be a- a boon to the city to get him off the streets. Not to mention the unfortunates upon which he preys. Very well, Nite Owl, I do believe that I can attend."  
  
"So let me get this straight. You guys are gonna raid a porn studio, doing snuff flicks, on Christmas Eve? Hahahaha! That's the funniest fuckin' thing I've heard all month! Count me in, bird boy. Where and when?"  
  
Dan had just hung up the phone from his final call when a knock came at the door. Heart in his throat, Dan nearly ran to the foyer and threw the door open. Walter was on his stoop, clutching a flat square box, smirking up at him. "Fifty-eight minutes," he said. "I checked."  
  
"You came back," Dan breathed. "I thought... we'll have to get you a house key." The words slipped out before he could register their implications; Walter's ears bloomed red, but he said nothing. "What'd you get?"  
  
Walter opened his mouth as he shrugged off his jacket, but then closed it again. "Easier to show, in case I don't do it right. I need a pair of scissors, a sewing kit and a hot plate."  
  
The scissors and sewing kit were easy, taken from Dan's desk drawer. The hot plate was harder, hidden in the back of a shelf in the tallest cabinet, a leftover from his college dorm days. Walter took them both without a word and disappeared into the bathroom with his box, locking the door behind him.  
  
Dan went back into the kitchen and slumped into a chair. Now that Walter was back (safe and whole), tension bled from Dan like oil, like ink. He felt washed out, the adrenaline of the past twelve hours leaving him dead on his feet. He wanted to drag himself off to bed and rest up for the night's raid, but curiosity drove him to the coffeepot. Walter was doing something serious, something meaningful with those scissors and that hot plate and the contents of his box, something that he intended to show Dan when it was done. (Something that he had returned home, home, to show him.) Dan wanted to see what that was, so he brewed coffee and read the paper and waited.  
  
Two hours later, footsteps brought Dan's eyes up from black and white newsprint to meet a different kind of monochrome. His mouth fell open in shock. "What on earth...?"  
  
"Took me two tries," came the raspy voice from behind a smooth roiling sheen of black and white. "What do you think?"  
  
Dan got up from his seat and went to his friend, staring at the shifting visage before him. Shapes swirled and coalesced, never resting long enough to for a true lasting impression. "A pretty butterfly?" he asked softly.  
  
"Whatever you want," was the hoarse reply (Dan felt it in his gut).  
  
Dan reached out trembling fingers, tracing them across a latex-covered cheekbone; the black ink followed his fingers like a lover's gaze. "It's beautiful," he said, "and terrifying. Perfect." His hand dropped to his side again. "Perfect."  
  
They slept in separate rooms, and woke to darkness. It was time.

**

"You're late," the Comedian growled around his cigar as they came down the gangplank to the rooftop rendezvous. "Hollis was a lot of things, Junior, but one of them was 'on time.'"  
  
"By ten minutes," Captain Metropolis shot back in Nite Owl's defense, fussily smoothing out the edges of his jodhpurs. "And we're still waiting on young Laurie, so it's doing us no good to snap."  
  
"Is Dr. Manhattan coming?" Ozymandias asked.  
  
Nite Owl shook his head. "He's in DC right now. I tried to reach him, but he's too busy."  
  
"Who's your friend?" the Comedian asked.  
  
Nite Owl grinned before straightening his face, all business. "Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce my pa- colleague, Rorschach. We've been working together on this effort and he's been invaluable."  
  
Blots winged their way across Rorschach's mask as he touched two fingers to the brim of his fedora (praying that no one could tell he was blushing). "Pleasure."  
  
"A new vigilante?" said Metropolis, stepping forward to shake his hand. "Delighted to welcome a new addition to the brotherhood! I apologize if I've missed your previous exploits in the papers."  
  
"Enhhk. Keep a low profile. Not in it for the ink."  
  
"Then what are you in it for, Rorschach?" Ozymandias asked, too careful to be casual.   
  
Rorschach disliked him already. "I have my reasons."  
  
"Sorry I'm late!" A female voice interrupted Ozymandias' next question as Silk Spectre vaulted herself up from the fire escape onto the tenement roof, her ponytail swinging behind her. "Sorry, I was having some trouble with- what?"  
  
All of the men were staring at her (even Rorschach) in surprise. Silk Spectre's gauzy, flowing garment had been swapped out for a tight latex sheath, yellow and black from neck to foot, covering everything but leaving nothing to the imagination. "Hey Spectre," Nite Owl said faintly. "You look... different."  
  
"You guys like it?" She twirled unselfconsciously. "It's great, it's got this bodystocking with this weird new stuff that keeps you warm. Besides, I hear latex is in this season." Rorschach started coughing like he'd choked on a sob or a laugh. "Oh, hi. Who are you?"  
  
Introductions duly made, the motley crew piled themselves into the owlship, Rorschach seating Silk Spectre in the co-pilot's chair before taking up a stance behind Nite Owl's. Archie hummed and lit up as Nite Owl started the craft. "Would you mind putting that out?" he said over his shoulder to the Comedian. "The smoke might interfere with the new instruments. And you all might want to hang on to something."   
  
The Comedian flipped him the bird, but stubbed out the stogie on a stainless steel wall before pocketing it. "Just try not to hit any jolly old elves tonight, Junior."  
  
The craft rose from the roof, angled back to face the starry skies, hovering there for a brief moment. Rorschach got a suspicious feeling at the momentary halt and sneaked a peek at Nite Owl's face. Beneath that cowl was a smile. "Da- Nite Owl," Rorschach said warningly; the smile grew wider. "Nite Owl, don't even think about-"  
  
Nite Owl grasped the steering column and pointed dramatically at the windows. "On, Dasher, on, Dancer, on, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet, on, Cupid, on Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, now dash away, dash away, dash away all!"  
  
The Comedian laughed nearly the whole way there.


	13. Chapter 13

It was a simple plan. "Simple" and "easy" were two different things.  
  
"It's real simple," Dan said as he maneuvered the owlship around the skyline to the docklands. "According to the archived blueprints, the warehouse was converted from its standard design into a soundstage a few months. Skylights for natural lighting, carpeted green rooms, prop storage, that kind of thing. I don't know why they did it, but the venture was eventually abandoned and the warehouse turned over to storage again."  
  
"Except that the corporation that bought the warehouse is a front," Rorschach growled.  
  
"Making it a perfect space for the King of Skin and his... films," said Metropolis, looking grim below his half-mask.  
  
"We're going to be using the warehouse's new design to our advantage," Dan continued. "Spectre, Metropolis, I'll be dropping you with Rorschach at the other side of the dock. Your job is to make your way to the warehouse on foot. Our reconnaissance showed that the guards tended to stick close to the warehouse itself, and that they congregate at the workers' door in the front. There should only be one or two, and they'll likely have electric shock prods instead of guns; I think they're more to stop people from getting out than in." (Walter clenched his teeth behind the mask.) "We'll contact the police and leave a tip about the action, then take our place above the warehouse."  
  
"And what do you intend the rest of us to do?" Ozymandias asked.  
  
Nite Owl smiled. "It's Christmas Eve. How does Santa get into all the houses?"  
  
The Comedian barked another laugh. "I like the way you think junior. Bringing Christmas cheer to a pimp. Ho, ho, ho!" He guffawed at his own abysmal pun and Rorschach growled under his breath.  
  
Nite Owl turned slightly to peer behind him. "You holding up, buddy?" he asked, just over a whisper.  
  
Rorschach _ehhnked_ uncomfortably before replying, just as quietly, "Still think I should be with you. Don't trust the other two to watch your back."  
  
"We've been over this, Wal-Rorschach. The hostages are our top priority. If the King of Skin escapes, we'll find him again. But those folks have only one life, and that's the main goal."  
  
"You've got one life, too."  
  
"Don't worry about me. I'm the one with armor. You think I'm not worried about you, too?"  
  
Struck, Rorschach tried to think of a retort but couldn't manage one. (To have someone care and worry about him still traced a shiver down his spine in its' newness.) He could only press a silent hand to Nite Owl's shoulder and hope that he could feel it through the armor. Out of the corner of his eye (invisible behind the mask), he could see Silk Spectre giving them an odd, calculating glance. Before he could comment on it, Nite Owl called "This is the drop spot," and brought Archie in to hover a mere two feet above the pavement.  
  
Rorschach opened the hatch and allowed Metropolis and Specter to go first, taking one last glance over his shoulder (drinking in the sight, just in case). Nite Owl nodded briskly, colleague to colleague, but his "Good luck," was warm.  
  
Standing in the chill December air, the trio watched the ship seal itself up and angle away into the night.  
  
Shaking himself slightly, Metropolis said "Well! Good to be back in the line of duty."  
  
"No time for small talk," Rorschach growled.  
  
"He's got a point, Uncle," Silk Spectre said. "We can coffee klatch after we save some lives."  
  
"Just like your mother," Metropolis muttered, but followed their lead as they loped into the shadows of shipping crates, picking their way through the blackness.  
  
The journey there was quiet and uneventful, marked only by the lapping of waves against the concrete, the cry of unseen gulls, and the thumping and click-clacking of running feet. Walter's heart was pounding, sweat beading under his mask despite the freezing air. Would they be successful? Would they get the prisoners out alive? (Would Daniel be all right without him?) These questions buzzed like electricity though his head, spurring his feet faster (and as long as he kept asking those questions, he wouldn't have to ask if he was strong enough, good enough, to actually pull this off. He was running with _heroes_ , for God's sake!)

Concealed by a crate, they crept into view of the hulking warehouse, the few visible windows glowing with inviting yellow light. Two men stood by the lone door, quietly conversing, huddled miserably in their coats. "What now?" Spectre whispered.  
  
"Now we wait," Rorschach replied.  
  
"For how long?"  
  
Before he could open his mouth to reply, there was a roar and flash as Archie darted over their heads, the ship wheeling about to hover over the warehouse. (The men turned to gawk and point, dumbstruck by the sight.) The ship seemed to float on the snowy breeze, a ghost of Christmas present, when suddenly a dark cowled shape dropped from a hatch in Archie belly... straight into the warehouse skylight! There was a shattering of glass (like ice; Walter's throat closed at the sound), a crackle of spent electricity and distant howls of pain, announcing to all and sundry that the Nite Owl (and his electrified armor) had descended from on high like a god from the machine, ready to right all wrongs.  
  
Walter's mental images was spoiled by Captain Metropolis hissing "Now!" and darting forward across the snowfield to the door, left ajar by the thugs who dashed inside to aid their comrades. He was barely able to catch a glimpse of Ozymandias and the Comedian rappelling their way in after Nite Owl before he burst through the door, startling the thugs into turning. Hands dropped to electrical prods at their belts, but they didn't have a chance; with the raw power remembered from the mats at the YMCA, Rorschach hurled himself at one of the cronies, catching him around the knees and toppling him backwards. His head connected with the carpetless concrete with a crack and he lay still. (He was soon joined by his colleague, compliment of Silk Spectre's roundhouse to the face.)  
  
"Well!" Captain Metropolis said, surveying the unconscious men. "Not much finesse, but that comes with age. Full marks for efficacy, though, well done." (Walter rolled his eyes behind his mask as he secured the cronies' hands and feet with Daniel's improved zip ties.)  
  
According to their research of the warehouse's layout, the most efficient place to hold a large number of people would be in one of the equipment rooms (large enough to hold the larger cameras and boom microphones, no windows and only one door.) Rorschach led the way as quickly as he dared, senses sharp with adrenaline, scanning for any sign of life. However, they encountered no opposition, and judging from the muffled shouts, screams, electric crackles and gunshots (the Comedian's rubber bullets, Walter prayed), the other half of the team was making a perfect decoy.  
  
Reaching the storage section of the studio-cum-warehouse, Rorschach tried each door he could find. Empty storage, green room, prop room, locked door. (Hastily swallowed sobs could faintly be heard behind it, followed by a quiet shushing noise.) "This one," Rorschach said, looking around for something heavy to break the door down.  
  
"I got this." Silk Spectre pulled a length of felt out of the top of her boot, unfolding a set of lock picks. (Walter's eyebrows rose, unseen.)  
  
"Where on earth did you get those?" Metropolis asked, scandal in his voice.  
  
"Oh, please. How else would I get into Mother's liquor cabinet?"  
  
"Laurel _Jane_!"  
  
"Please," Rorschach interrupted. "Not much time. Hurry."  
  
Suddenly somber, Silk Spectre nodded and bent to her task, thin metal scraping and rolling the tumblers.  
  
"Well," Metropolis said again. "Well, thus far I think this team effort has been quite the success." (Walter squeezed his eyes shut; would the old man _never_ stop talking?) "Perhaps we could make this a regular event. Yes, with meetings and collaborations, and a name! I think that there is some real potential here, not to mention it would be a good influence on young Laurie." Silk Spectre rolled her eyes conspicuously, but said nothing. "What do you think, Rorschach?"  
  
Rorschach opened his eyes, and was just in time to see one of the King of Skin's thugs behind Metropolis, club poised to strike. "Look out!" he shouted.

It was nearly too fast for Rorschach to follow. Captain Metropolis thrust his elbow back into the man's midsection, doubling him. Another elbow was applied to the nose, breaking it with a wet snap. (The club clattered to the floor.) Two punches to the temple (snap-snap), another knee to the stomach, and then the thug was hefted and thrown bodily against the far wall. He bounced to the floor and remained, unmoving.  
  
"See?" Metropolis said, taking a deep breath. "Finesse. Takes a little practice, that's all. Rorschach, if you wouldn't mind binding him? As you were, Laurie, but I'll be having words with your mother, young lady."  
  
Rorschach (closing his gaping mouth and grateful no one could see it) moved over to secure the fallen criminal. He'd just finished zipping the tie around the man's ankles when there was a click from the lock. "Got it!" Silk Spectre said, pulling the door open. No sooner did she than she stepped back, covering her mouth and nose and leaving Rorschach room to step inside.  
  
The smell was almost a physical presence, more animal than human; excrement, open sores and unwashed flesh. The light from the hall illuminated only shadows in the windowless room, upraised arms covered in bruising, cowering backs bearing electrical burns, a rancid bucket in one corner. (Walter swallowed bile and tried not to think of himself in their place.)  
  
"Yeah, what now?" came a sharp, familiar voice, and Walter's heart leaped in relief. A staggering shape rose up from the masses, imposing despite dark bruises on dark skin, tall and proud on a swollen ankle, afro matted but unmistakable. "You coming for somebody else?" Brandy spat at him. "Gonna try and kill somebody else so you can get your shriveled little dick up? Gonna kill us so you can get it up, you sick fuck?"  
  
"Brandy," Rorschach began, but was interrupted by days of desperation and rage.  
  
"Why don't you start with me, huh? Fucking little shit, gotta prove you're a man? Fine!"  
  
"Brandy!"  
  
"Go ahead! Like to see you try, cocksucker! I'm sick of waiting for you! _Bring it_!"  
  
"BRANDY!"  
  
She fell silent, finally registering his words, his face (his lack of face). "...how'd you know my name?" she whispered, fatalistic bravado chipped away by hope.  
  
Rorschach glanced over his shoulder before stepping closer to her (still outside of grabbing range). Carefully taking a corner of his mask, he peeled it up just enough to reveal a sharp jaw, a snub nose, a single, warm eye. "It's me," Walter murmured.  
  
Brandy took a step back, wincing at the pressure on her ankle. "Wa-"  
  
Walter put a finger to his lips before hurriedly tugging his mask down. "Rorschach," he corrected.  
  
"Rorschach," Brandy echoed. "Right." Her voice grew warm, heavy with exhaustion and relief. "Still in the damsel business, huh, kid? This'd be the second time you saved Brandy's tired ol' ass."  
  
"Not much time," Rorschach said, refusing to acknowledge her words (and their past). "We need to get everyone out. I don't know how much longer we can hold the guards."  
  
He had to say this for Brandy; she was quick on her feet. At the prospect of freedom, Brandy spun around and shouted at the frightened, frozen huddle. "On your feet! If you can't walk, find someone to carry you! We're getting out!"  
  
"W-What if they find us?" stuttered one girl in a corner, her arms dotted with track marks.  
  
"Then we kick the shit out of them!" said Silk Spectre, who had regained her former equilibrium.  
  
"Er, yes," added Metropolis. "You'll be safe with us, miss. I promise."  
  
"See? So why we still talking?" Brandy snapped. "Come on, we're gone!"

It was easier said than done. Making their way through the halls was even more harrowing than before, leading about a dozen shambling survivors (they'd been about half again as many a week ago, Brandy had said. Most of the fighters went first). Rorschach and Captain Metropolis carried the two youngest, a pair of tiny Asian girls that might have been twelve, might have been younger. (It would have been better if she struggled or cried, but she lay so still in his arms that it made Walter want to cry in her place.)  
  
They were within sight of the outside door, sirens heard in the snowy distance, when a cry rang out from down the hall behind them, also familiar. Walter's heart was ice in his chest. "Take her," he ordered, thrusting the girl in his arms towards Silk Spectre.  
  
She took the child, more out of confusion than otherwise. "What? But what are you-"  
  
"Go!" Rorschach shouted, turning to sprint the way they came. "I'll catch up! GO!" Rounding the corner, Rorschach burst through a set of double doors into the main film set.  
  
It was chaos. What was left of the mood lighting illuminated a set trussed up to resemble a medieval dungeon. Cameras and lights, shorted out or sparking, lay toppled among the guy cables. Senseless henchmen lay scattered across the sets, limp. Ozymandias tangled with three henchmen at the far end of the set, limbs arching and lashing in a dizzying display of martial art. The Comedian was nowhere to be seen.  
  
And in the middle of the room, pinning Nite Owl on his stomach with a heavy boot to his back, a broad man in a maroon leisure suit, a domino mask and a golden crown raised a thick golden scepter in both hands, preparing to bash in the skull of the man he loved!  
  
Rorschach had never run so fast in his life. Crossing the room in what seemed a heartbeat, he got close enough to hear the King of Skin's parting taunt ("Say bye bye, birdie!") before launching himself at the man with an agonized, inhuman scream. "RRAAAARL!!" He slammed into the taller man's back with all the force of his considerable weight, making him stumble. Blind lashings of Rorschach's legs caught the King in the back of the knee, sending him crashing to his knees. He tried to reach around to grab him, but Rorschach clawed and punched and pushed with all his might, a knee to the back finally forcing the King to the ground.  
  
The King of Skin tried to brace himself with his arms, but Rorschach swept with his leg, knocking one arm aside, and grabbed the King's long hair. _Crack!_ His head connected with the pavement, cartilage snapping. (The crown toppled from his head, revealing the shiny bald patch it concealed. _Crack!_ The King gurgled and spat, teeth littering the pavement. Rorschach felt no empathy, no restraint. There was only the burning rage that boiled in his veins, focused towards this man (this balding, ugly, dirty man, no different than his johns), who took lives that he thought no one would notice, who sold blood for profit, who would have killed him, killed Daniel, _killed his Daniel_!  
  
_Crack!!_  
  
"Wal-Rorschach!" Strong arms encircled him, pulling him away from the limp criminal, who was gurgling with each exhale. "Rorschach. That's enough. The police are here."  
  
Rorschach gasped for air, still twitching with rage and grief and disgust, as the pounding blood in his ears faded enough to let him hear the sirens, louder now, just outside.  
  
Nite Owl, bruised but upright, turned to look at Ozymandias (binding the last of the three he'd beaten), then down at Rorschach (shaking in his arms). "Come on," he said gently, turning Rorschach in his arms and pulling the grappling gun from his belt holster. "Hang on tight. We're all done here." Wrapping Rorschach's arms around his neck, Nite Owl fired his gun towards the broken skylight, letting the cable draw them up from the wreckage into the brisk, frozen night.

**

Boots crunching on snow and rooftop gravel, Nite Owl and Rorschach made their way to the edge of the roof, peering down at the commotion below. At the far end of the clearing, Silk Spectre and Captain Metropolis sat with the freed prostitutes in a cluster of ambulances, the bruised and battered receiving field treatment from the paramedics and the more injured girls being loading onto a stretcher.  
  
Ozymandias emerged from the building and stood at the nucleus of an atom of camera flashes and fired questions, holding up his hands in a noble stance as the reporters circled round and round like planets (like sharks). The Comedian was still nowhere to be found, presumably in the King of Skin's archives tagging evidence (and looking to enrich his own personal library with more legal fare, no doubt). And high above it all, shaking and aching but ultimately victorious, Rorschach was finally able to let out the breath he'd been holding (for years and years) as the King of Skin was dragged, face like hamburger in the flashbulbs, to a waiting patrol car.  
  
Justice had been served.  
  
"Hell of a night, huh buddy?" Night Owl said, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead (and just like that, he was Daniel again). "Probably wasn't the easiest case to cut your teeth on, but you were great in there." A gauntleted hand came to rest on a trench coated shoulder. "And... thanks. Probably wouldn't have made it out without you."  
  
"Hurm." Rorschach ducked his head, but made no move to shrug Daniel's hand away.  
  
Looking over to the cluster of survivors, Rorschach was able to pick out a tall afro atop a mocha form, could barely make out tart comments to the unfortunate medic wrapping her ankle above the din. Glancing around, Brandy spotted the pair on the rooftop and, with exaggerated movements clear even from the distance, blew them a kiss. Rorschach reached out a gloved hand and snatched at the empty air before regarding his closed fist. Looking between Brandy and a suddenly smirking Daniel, he grinned (unseen) and slapped the palm of his hand over Dan's spluttering mouth. A delighted cackle rang out through the Christmas air.  
  
"All right, buddy, that's enough for you," Dan chuckled. Rorschach swayed on his feet, still grinning, feeling shaky and cold and punch-drunk. He allowed Dan to thread his arm through his own and pull him towards the hovering craft. "Come on, partner. The others can get a taxi for all I care. Let's go home."

**

Walter stuffed the mask into his trench coat pocket with no real care before shrugging the garment off and draping it over the kitchen chair. He rolled his neck on his shoulders until his felt (and heard) a satisfying crack. It had been a harrowing night, a _good_ night, but with all of the excitement and adrenaline beginning to seep from his system, Walter was ready for sleep. And in the morning... _in the morning..._  
  
Dan came up the basement stairs and closed the door behind him, dressed in civilian clothes once again. One hand rested in the pocket of his jeans, the other adjusted his glasses. "It's, ah, it's past midnight," he began hesitantly, drawing a handful of bills from his pocket. Walter's heart leaped into his throat. "Well... here." Dan handed Walter the bills; Walter took them mechanically and began to thumb through them (force of habit, not really counting). "So, that's it," Dan said, something in his throat dragging down the lighthearted words. "Free to come and go as you please."  
  
"...I see." Walter turned the bills over and over in his hands (so much paper). "Should I... go, then?"  
  
"No! I mean, if you want to, I can't stop you, but..." A deep breath, a rub of palms against jeans, and the words left Dan in a rush. "I want you to stay. I want you to move in with me. We don't have to do anything, anything you don't want, but I-I don't want you out on the streets. Or in hotel rooms. Or anywhere else you don't want to be; I just want... I want you to stay. Please."  
  
Walter's long fingers tightened around the money (the only stable thing he knew). "What do you want... from me?"  
  
"Whatever you want," Dan breathed, voice hoarse (as Walter's had been behind roiling latex, in this same kitchen, so long ago).  
  
( _There are rules to this life, Daniel. They aren't hard to follow._ ) Walter took a step forward. ( _Cash up front. Never, ever go into a partnership._ ) His arms reached up to twine around the neck of the man he fought with, argued with, read and ate and bled with. ( _Never kiss them on the lips._.) With a shaky gasp, Walter surged forward and pressed his lips to Daniel's in his very first kiss.  
  
Walter came home.


	14. Chapter 14

After a few seconds of trembling contact, it became apparent to Dan that Walter had no _idea_ what he was doing. Whore he was, but to any form of intimacy or tenderness, Walter was a babe in the woods. (It put a fault line in Dan's heart, adding to the existing cracks from each of Walter's hesitant revelations.) Calling on half-remembered, half-sober college trysts with friends (and that one short-lived boyfriend), Dan wound his arms around Walter and pulled him tight, using the resulting gasp to coax his untutored mouth into kiss after gentle kiss. Walter shuddered and arched up, hands scrabbling at Dan's shoulders, but Dan kept at the same languorous pace ( _press, press, press_ ) until Walter whined softly and subsided. Finally, he mimicked Dan's motions with quickly increasing skill.  
  
Dan lost track of how long they kissed, but after some time of kissing, sighing, shedding clothing and brushing hard fingers over soft skin, Dan and Walter stumbled their way into the master bedroom without breaking their kissing for too terribly long. (In a quick fit of impatience, Dan was tempted to just pick Walter up and carry him bridal-style, but decided against it; Walter had enough hangups without bringing marriage symbolism into the event, and besides, the smaller man was built like a tank.)  
  
Both bare to their waists (glasses and garments like breadcrumbs leading up the stairs), Dan pressed Walter down onto the big bed before leaning over him. He kissed his eyes before returning to his mouth, carefully mapping the contours inside with his tongue. Walter shyly returned the advance with hesitant flickers of his own before breaking the kiss and pushing gently at Dan's shoulders, trying to push Dan onto his back. When Dan shook his head and refused to budge, Walter lay back and spread his legs wider, arching his hips up in silent invitation. (Another fault line appeared in Dan's heart.)   
  
"Walter," Dan said, "Walter, no. I don't want... we don't have to do that. Just relax."  
  
Walter looked confused, then cross, displeasure creasing his brows. "Want to make this good for you, Daniel," he rasped. "Want you to-"  
  
"Enjoy myself?" Dan asked, interrupting with a smile. "Trust me, Walter." Dan kissed the furrowed brow. "Just relax. I am enjoying myself," he kissed his mouth, "to the very fullest." Dan shifted his attentions to the pale, freckled column of his neck, where he'd ached to lick water and salt from on the very first night. He hummed in satisfaction as Walter arched up into his licks and kisses. Feeling daring, Dan nipped gently at the flesh of Walter's shoulder and was rewarded with a moan before blazing a trail down Walter's chest, bites blooming and bruising.  
  
Walter's hands never seemed to stop moving. They combed through Dan's hair as he tasted the hollow of Walter's collarbone. They fisted in the sheets as Dan sucked and nipped at a nipple, rolling the other in clever fingers. They reached for retreating skin as Dan moved lower and lower to the growing bulge concealed by purple pinstripes. (And oh, oh, Dan loved how responsive he was, not the artificial desire of a whore, but the stutters and half-whispers of a lover.)   
  
Dan dipped his tongue into Walter's navel, inhaling musk and salt as his fingers undid Walter's trousers. He sat up, watching Walter's glassy-eyed gasp as he drew trousers and underwear off together. Walter's damp cock was pulled full and tight against the firm planes of his stomach. Dan let the clothing fall to the bedroom floor and gazed at his lover, spread out on the bed: compact limbs and lean muscle. Pale freckled skin flushing pink with a self-conscious blush. Red hair, bright fire above and darker orange below. Long hands twitching with the urge to hide the evidence of his arousal. (Dan's mouth watered.)

"Daniel," Walter said, and his voice was higher than usual ( _fear, fear he didn't show even before raiding the King of Skin's lair_ ). "Daniel, I... you don't have to-"  
  
"Shhh," Dan said, running a gentling hand up and down Walter's side in firm, even strokes. "It's okay. I want to, I really do. God, you don't know how much..."  
  
"How long?"  
  
Dan's first impulse was to say 'all week,' but thinking a bit harder, casting his mind back to Go and leafless trees and the freezing days before snow ( _Dan watched him go before heading off in the opposite direction, refusing to identify or acknowledge the sudden ache in his chest_ ), he said instead, "Since November, at least. Maybe even before." Smiling, Dan arched up to end that disbelieving stare with another kiss before sliding down the length of Walter's body, holding his gaze all the while. "Let me know if I'm doing it right," he said smartly before dipping his head and wrapping his lips around his lover's cock.  
  
Walter moaned in near-pain, fisting the bedsheets again as if he didn't trust himself near Dan. Dan suckled experimentally at the dark head of Walter's cock, circling the ridges and dipping his tongue into the slit. Both hands held Walter's hips as Dan dipped his head up and down. It had been far, far too long since he'd gone down on a partner (longer since he'd done it to someone he cared about) and the sensory experiences flooded Dan. The smell of musk that was concentrated here. The sharp-salt taste of warm, heavy flesh against the flat of his tongue. The sound of gasps and cries as his lover ( _Walter now, no one else_ ) tried to retain the smallest bit of control in the face of such pleasure. Only one thing was missing.   
  
Pulling his lips away from Walter's cock, pumping the shaft with one hand while holding himself up with the other, Dan gasped, "Touch me. I want you to touch me." Then he returned to his ministrations, bobbing and sucking in time with his fist. Walter's hands finally wound their way into Dan's hair, following his motions up and down. The fingers caught a snag in Dan's hair and pulled slightly. Dan moaned around the cock in his mouth, rubbing his own jeans-clad tumescence shallowly against the bedspread. Gasping, Walter curled his fingers tight in Dan's hair and pulled more sharply. The bolt of pain-pleasure was instantaneous, sending a jolt down Dan's spine straight to his cock. He moaned again, louder, the vibrations making Walter buck and shiver.  
  
"Daniel," Walter said, a note of desperation in his voice. Dan read it and ignored it, sucking more firmly, dipping a hand to roll and squeeze Walter's tight balls. "Daniel!" Walter said again, hips bucking up of their own accord. "Daniel, stop, I'm- I'm going to- you can't- oh God, God, _Daniel_!" With another wordless shout, Walter arched off the bed and came hard in Dan's waiting mouth.  
  
Dan almost tossed his head in surprise at the bitter flavor, but kept himself steady and swallowed Walter down, sucking and licking until Walter's quiet whimpers told him that he had grown too sensitive. Dan was almost painfully hard in his jeans, turned on beyond belief by his partner's display (and the fact that he'd _made_ it happen, he'd made Walter come and it filled Dan with a peculiar pride). But when he shouldered himself up and looked down at Walter, trembling and sweating and looking up at him with an unfathomable joy, Dan could do nothing but wrap his arms around him and capture those thin, trembling lips in a kiss, soothing him through the aftershocks.  
  
He could wait. They had time.


	15. Chapter 15

Walter wasn't sure how long he floated on endorphins and joy, adrift in a star-sea of new passion. (He'd orgasmed with a partner before, some of his clients getting off on him getting off, but that was nothing like this. That was cold, clinical, professional. This was...) When he finally swam back to himself, he found himself tangled in Daniel's embrace. The other man lay with his eyes closed, idly stroking Walter's hair and breathing through his nose, as if committing Walter touch and scent to memory. And he was still half-hard in his jeans.  
  
A slow, wicked smile crept across Walter's sharp face, and he snaked a hand down to grip the bulge there in a practiced hand.  
  
Daniel's eyes snapped open with a gasp, flung from contentment to lust with dizzying speed. "W-Walter?" he stuttered.  
  
Walter just grinned wider. "Rise and shine, Daniel," he growled. "My turn."  
  
With an easy swoop, Walter found himself straddling his prone partner, Daniel's breath hitching with lust as he gazed up at Walter. (It was admiration without possession, lust tempered with affection, and it made Walter's toes curl and his cock twitch.) "Been too good to me, Daniel," he purred in his best bedroom voice. "Such a good boy. And good boys get what they want for Christmas." The words came easily, nothing he hadn't said before (he'd said much worse), but here he hesitated. Daniel was looking at him, bare chest heaving, hands creeping up Walter's forearms, eyes so full of trust...   
  
Before he could let himself freeze up, Walter bent himself forward and pressed his lips to Daniel's, kissing him with all of the finesse he could muster after half an hour's lesson. Daniel seemed to approve, smiling and humming into the kiss (and Walter marveled again how such a simple contact, lips on lips, could produce such a sharp and shivering sensation).  
  
Breaking the kiss with a disappointed puff of air, Walter smirked again before embarking on the Customer Catalogue. He'd made it a standard practice with any long-term customer, this slow and measured mapping of erogenous zones. (But this was better, now he added lips and teeth to his trailblazing instead of the standard touches.) It turned out that Daniel's nipples were much less sensitive than Walter's, but that the scrape of teeth across the tender skin on the inside of his wrist made him gasp and buck and plead for more (Walter, please...) He was ticklish, too, light touches across the ribs and on the back of the knee sending him into fits of giggles. And, like most of his customers, Daniel was very appreciative of Walter's little trick of undoing the fly of his jeans with his teeth.  
  
Both naked, neither ashamed, Walter stole one more kiss from Daniel's panting mouth before sliding down to his full, dark cock. Feeling daring, he locked eyes with Daniel before kissing the tip, lapping at the precum that leaked there. Daniel moaned and threw an arm over his eyes, shuddering as Walter swallowed his cock down in one practiced maneuver. Walter employed all his skill and finesse, motion here and suction there, a quick twist of the wrist that make Daniel cry out like he'd been kicked. He could tell Daniel was close, could feel it, could smell it...   
  
Swiftly, Walter clamped his long fingers around the base of Daniel's cock, holding fast and firm. Daniel shouted, a hoarse cry of surprise, but Walter held him there until his bucking and shuddering slowed. When Walter released him, Daniel was still hard, but he knew that the urgency was gone.  
  
"How...?" Daniel managed, looking blearily up at Walter. "How did you...?"  
  
Walter reached up to silence his question with a kiss. (How to say that orgasm denial had been a major selling point for him?) "Where's your slick?" Walter asked instead, as breathless as Daniel.  
  
Daniel jerked his head to the nightstand and gestured limply. "Top drawer," he said, before rousing a bit more and saying "No, wait!"

But it was too late. Walter opened the drawer and peered inside before throwing his head back and laughing, loud and full (had he ever laughed like that with Daniel before?). Inside the drawer was lube, yes, but there was also a varied array of sex toys, all shapes, sizes and colors. It was so incongruous with the image of his Daniel, with his glasses and Sears-catalog wardrobe (blushing bright, but with an unflagging erection) that Walter couldn't help himself.   
  
"Well," he finally said through his chuckles, "at least we won't get bored for a while."  
  
"Asshole," Daniel said pleasantly before kissing him again.  
  
"Speaking of," Walter shot back, just to see Daniel blush again. (He did.)  
  
The condoms were in the master bath (leading Walter to suspect that the toys were not for partner play). By the time Walter returned, Daniel was wearing a worried expression, lines on his brow that Walter wanted to smooth away. "Walter," he said, "you know you don't have to do this. That's not what this is about."  
  
Touched and irritated at once, Walter knelt on the bed again. "What's the matter, Daniel?" he purred before tearing the foil open with his teeth. "I don't get you hot?" He let Daniel splutter for a moment or two before saying "That's what I thought." Then, in one practiced motion, he popped the condom in his mouth and unrolled it on Daniel with his tongue. (" _Oh God oh God oh God,_ " like a broken record, like a broken bird.)  
  
Walter knelt over Daniel again, coating two fingers with lube. He teased the fingers along his own half-hard cock before reaching around and pushing them into himself. He arched his back and exhaled loudly as he stretched himself, hearing Daniel's answering moan, feeling Daniel's hands on his stomach, hips, cock. It was a performance, but it was a performance for Daniel, to bring his partner pleasure. Joy sparked through Walter's veins, sharper than arousal, and when he twisted his fingers sharply within his opening, he _wanted_ it. He wanted to be filled for the first time in his life (for this time, it meant something).  
  
"Now," he breathed, sliding his fingers out and coating Daniel's cock with lube, positioning the slick head at his entrance. With twin moans, he sank down onto Daniel's cock, shifting at the wet pressure. "Daniel," Walter sighed, stroking his own cock to full hardness. "Oh, so good, so good, Daniel..." He rocked up and down, feeling the press and slide of Daniel's length in his tight channel.  
  
"Oh God," Daniel said again, wide-eyed, sweat-soaked. "Oh, oh yes, I never thought you'd- thought you'd-" He cut himself off as Walter picked up the pace, rocking faster and faster, fucking himself on Daniel's cock.  
  
"Never thought _what_?" Walter panted. "Never thought I'd want this? Never thought I'd want you? You th-thought wrong, p-pa-artner-r." His strokes had found his prostate, sparks shimmering up and down his spine. His cock was hard again, and Walter jerked it roughly as he rode Daniel, racing for the end.   
  
"Got something to say?" he gasped, leaning down and grasping Daniel by the hair again. Daniel moaned and gripped Walter's hips tighter, pulling him down to meet his thrusts with near-cruel force ( _Daniel likes talking, likes rough play,_ Walter dimly noted). "Something to s-say to me? Say it, Daniel!" He pulled on his hair, pleasure-pain. "Say it!"

" _I love you_!"" Daniel howled; Walter lost his grip. "I love you, love you, _love you_! Oh, oh yes, yes, I'm gonna- oh God, _Walter, yes_!!"  
  
And that was it. Walter's cock spurted on Daniel's stomach, his muscles tightening in shock and ecstasy. Daniel sobbed as he came inside Walter, his strokes stuttering and jerking as Walter milked him through it (the most amazing orgasm in his life, assuming he _was_ still alive).   
  
Sweating and shaking, Walter toppled sideways off of Daniel to lie on his side, Daniel's cock slipping out of him. Worn out from his first vigilante raid, two orgasms and an earth-shattering revelation ( _he loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah_ ), Walter half-closed his eyes and let the world gray out.  
  
When he came back to himself, Daniel was slowly wiping a warm washcloth across his skin, cleaning him of any sweat and spend that remained. In the dim light from the side table lamp, Daniel's eyes looked red and his hair looked like a bird's nest, but the happy, satisfied quirk to his mouth made him beautiful. "Daniel?" Walter murmured, trying to pick his head up.  
  
"Shhh," Daniel soothed, running a hand through damp ginger locks. "It's all right." He dropped the washcloth on the nightstand and turned off the light before moving them under the covers. It took some creative arranging and bumped knees in the dark, but finally they settled together in a comfortable embrace. Walter was sore and exhausted (and his mouth tasted like latex), but Daniel was warm and so was he.   
  
_But... wasn't there something I forgot?_ "Daniel?" he asked again.  
  
"Shhh," came the same reply. A hand rested along the back of Walter's head. "It's all right. It's... all right."  
  
And if Daniel's voice sounded a little choked-up, and if he couldn't remember what he wanted to say to Daniel, Walter figured it was all right. He'd figure it out in the morning.  
  
The heater in the basement turned on. Hot water gurgled through the radiator pipes.  
  
They slept, and were warm.


	16. Chapter 16

Walter woke up alone. For half a second, he wondered if the previous night had been all just a very vivid dream, but he quickly discounted that (he was sore all over, the room smelled faintly of sex, and he was still naked in Daniel's bed.) Bright sunlight poured in through the windows, pooling in squares on the bedspread. It was Christmas Day, the end of his bargain, and he was still here.  
  
Stretching languorously, wrapped in contentment and eiderdown, Walter almost turned over and went to sleep, but the empty, cooling space beside him coaxed him out of bed and in search of its former occupant. He almost ducked into his own room for his pajamas before grinning wickedly and raiding Dan's closet, pulling out a once-worn white button-down shirt, still faintly fragrant with his cologne. Now (barely) decent, Walter ducked into the bathroom to clean up before following his nose into the kitchen.  
  
Peering around the door frame, Walter drank in the sight before him: Daniel was at the stove, barefoot and shirtless in nothing but his jeans and glasses, humming to himself as he flipped French toast. The view of finely-shaped skin was marred with darkening bruises, but it was only a reminder that they were alive, and so were the prostitutes, and the King of Skin was behind bars. The tiny black-and-white television gave a tinny _Tah-rah! Tah-rah!_ as the Grinch rode his sleigh of stolen toys back to Whoville.  
  
"Timing needs work," Daniel said without turning around. Instead of shrinking back, Walter leaned against the door frame, letting his shirt drape off one shoulder. "I was going to bring these upstairs for you." Daniel turned to look at him, his mouth falling open in surprise and desire.  
  
"Appreciate the sentiment, Daniel," Walter purred. "You'll burn those."  
  
Quick as a flash, Daniel snapped the heat off and moved the pan to an empty burner. "There. They can wait." He held his arms open. "Come here."  
  
Walter wanted to run, to cross the kitchen as fast as possible, but he forced himself to saunter over, hands sliding up Daniel's bare chest to twine around his neck. Instead of a kiss, thought, Walter found himself heaved up and spun around until he sat on the countertop, only the tail of Daniel's shirt between his ass and the cold Formica. "Daniel!" he protested, but then he was kissed, slow and deep, and let his dangling legs hook around Daniel's hips as he drew him closer.  
  
"Good morning," Daniel said when they broke the kiss.  
  
"Morning," Walter parroted, and then remembered what he wanted to say. "I love you, Daniel."  
  
Daniel sighed, pulling off his glasses and resting them on the counter. "I know that," he said. "I know you do, but... to hear you say it, I-"  
  
Walter soothed him with another kiss, letting his fingers card their way through Daniel's thick hair. "So what do we do now?" he asked.  
  
"Whatever you want." Daniel locked eyes with Walter, his face serious. "If you want to stick with the vigilante thing, that's fine. If you want to get another job, I'll help you. You want to start a business, I'll help with that too. Hell, you can stay at home and write your memoir if you want. I'd read it."  
  
The words warmed Walter like a blanket, like a radiator (like love), permeating his entire being. "That's... good to know, Daniel," he said around a strange and sudden lump. "But I meant, what do we do today?"  
  
"Oh." Dan grinned and shook his head. "Well, I suggest that I finish up the French toast, we take them back to bed, and... see where we go from there."  
  
"Good plan."  
  
The sun from the window warmed Walter's back as they kissed and caressed, the French toast moving lower and lower on their list of priorities. The television crackled as the narrator spoke above the ringing of hopeful bells:  
  
 _Welcome, Christmas, bring your cheer,_  
Cheer to all Whos far and near.  
Christmas Day is in our grasp  
So long as we have hands to clasp.  
  
Welcome, Christmas, while we stand,  
Heart to heart, and hand in hand.


End file.
